


Fire in the Soul

by Rebcake



Series: Travels with Spike and Dru [17]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Animals, F/M, Horror, Post-Canon, Souls, Vampire Slayer(s), Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-04-24
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-18 17:03:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebcake/pseuds/Rebcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few years after Sunnydale’s spectacular demise, Buffy and her crew are getting on with their lives in San Francisco. A not entirely unwelcome blast from her past (Spike! It's Spike!) blows into town, but he’s brought more than the generally allowable amount of baggage with him. Namely, Drusilla. And Buffy's not allowed to stake her...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> NOT comics or Season 8 compliant.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A "chance" encounter leads to strong language and less-than-adult behavior. Also: animal magnetism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by Snickfic, who has seen every word and can be held completely liable for any mistakes. (Kidding! She was awesome, but then I messed around with it some more. Tsk.) Some photos contained herein are copyrighted as noted.

There were advantages and disadvantages to vampire slaying in San Francisco. There were no active cemeteries, for one thing. Sure, there were the tourist spots — like the 220-year-old graveyard at Mission Dolores, or the honest-to-god pet cemetery on the Presidio grounds — but all new human burials had long since moved a couple of towns to the south. Specifically to Colma, the “City of Souls”, with 1,600 living residents and 1.5 million deceased ones. Public transit being what it was, Buffy limited the boneyard patrols to nights when she wanted the girls to have a long hike home. The result was that she came across very few newbies in town. Which: hooray for the lack of ground-in grave dirt on her slaying outfits. The downside was that the vamps she ran into tended to have a bit more going on in the way of skills. Maybe that was an upside? She liked a challenge as much as, if not more than, the next slayer, but she was worried that perhaps some of the more wily vamps were managing to evade her and her team.

Due to the lack of centralized risings, she mostly rotated patrols between the nightclub districts and the parks. In diametric opposition to Sunnydale, there were far more bars than churches in the city, and there were _a lot_ of churches. She was sometimes nostalgic for the days when she could check in at the Bronze, the Fish Tank, and the Alibi Room, and still have most of her evening free for a leisurely stroll through the peace and quiet of one of the many resting places, alone and able to hear herself think.

It was possible that her memories were a bit selective.

Tonight her squad was mustering on the grounds of the Columbarium in preparation for a patrol of the Richmond district hotspots. Only cremated remains were interred at the Columbarium, but it was pretty, and helped get the girls into the right frame of mind for the evening’s activities.

“Once again, ladies: it only _looks_ like we’re bar-hopping. The goal tonight, and every night, is saving lives. Split into pairs: the two with the best fake IDs will do a quick sweep of the interior. Keep together! The other pair sweeps the outside perimeter. Seven minutes, tops, per establishment, unless you get a positive. You will purchase absolutely _no beverages_ while on patrol, nor accept any that are purchased for you. We’ll rendezvous at Quickly at Clement and 23rd for bubble tea at twenty-three hundred. Understood?”

While Yeji and Celeste high-fived at the prospect of a late-night treat, Pilar explained to Ashley, once again, that Buffy meant 11 o’clock. “I don’t know why she doesn’t just say so,” muttered Ashley. Pilar shrugged.

Buffy asked for a show of stakes and handed out water bottles before sending them on their way. They chattered happily as they moved off, which made her a little melancholy. Mostly she was happy that they still got to be girls, hanging out with their friends while saving the oblivious populace. She liked to think the adorable charms and stickers with which they customized their stakes were evidence of light hearts and age-appropriate responses to their responsibilities. But she missed having her old gang to make her own patrol fun. Though, given the direction she and Spike had taken her nightly duties — age appropriate for approximately nobody — maybe she was better off being relegated to chaperone.

She’d give them a five-minute head start, and then do rooftop surveillance. Clambering up and down buildings kept her from getting too antsy in her supervisory role. Plus, when a bad guy did appear, she got to swoop down in an intimidating manner. It’s the little things.

She slung her backpack across one shoulder and considered starting her evening with an invigorating shimmy up the Columbarium dome. There was a nice view from the top, and why bother living here if you weren’t going to take full advantage of the stunning vistas? Besides, she was feeling sort of twitchy; it would be good to work out a few kinks early on to keep the unease from setting the tone tonight. She headed for the low buttress on the west side, the best spot to start the climb. Almost immediately, her vamp sense began chiming more insistently than it had since Sunnydale. She considered calling the girls back to unite against the as yet unseen threat, but a peek around the corner of the building settled the matter. This was not a training exercise. This was seriously bad news.

Twirling in the moonlight, rending her fingertips on each rosebush she passed along the twisting path, was Drusilla.

If Buffy didn’t know better, she’d say her blood turned to ice in her veins. A vision of Kendra, lying in a wide pool of blood, hung in cinemascope before her, no less affecting than the day it etched itself onto her retinas. The first Slayer she’d failed to save had been an especially bitter blow, one she still avoided thinking about. It was an experience she vowed on the spot not to repeat with any of her new girls, and certainly not with this crazy Princess of the Damned Goth Chicks. It was way past time to put her out of Buffy’s misery.

Mentally cursing the lack of crossbow — those never seemed to go unnoticed on the streets of San Francisco — she slid the backpack off, strapped on a few more stakes, stuffed a few bottles of holy water in her pockets, and then just went for it.

She dove into the rose garden without warning. She came up out of her roll, stake in one hand, holy water in the other, less than 10 feet from the still twirling Dru. She drew her arm back to let the holy water fly when she heard a shout from off to her left.

“No!”

She spun to face the new threat, and was immediately tackled by a blur of black and silver. She lost the grip on the bottle in her hand, but she brought the stake down into the shoulder of her assailant, where the point skittered off at an angle when it hit something harder than vamp flesh. Her wrist twisted uncomfortably. She wrenched free from her attacker, and took up a defensive position facing both Drusilla and…Spike.

Drusilla had downgraded her spinning to swaying, looking with interest between Buffy and Spike. He rubbed his shoulder, no doubt bruised, alternating between shooting sideways looks at Buffy and staring at the ground. Was he _shuffling_? While she probably ought to have been speechless at the long-delayed sight of him, she found it ridiculously easy to talk.

“What the hell, Spike?!”

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he replied. “Didn’t expect you to find us. Thought we’d get a chance to explain, first.”

 _We?_ She tapped the stake against her thigh, drawing his eyes. He swallowed, visibly.

“Explain what? Hurry it up, I’ve got a Slayers’ Most Wanted waiting.” She gestured at Dru, who indeed looked like she was waiting. Patiently. Her hands were even clasped behind her back in the most provoking way.

“Can’t kill her at present, love.”

“Oh, I think I can,” retorted Buffy. “Let’s see.” She moved toward Dru, only to find Spike standing between them. She gave a sigh of exasperation. He looked directly into her eyes, and dropped the bomb.

“She’s got a soul now.”

+++

Buffy felt as if every moment when she’d uttered that phrase — _it’s different…has a soul now_ — was being stuffed back down her throat. She was sure she was going to choke on its echo. With sudden clarity, she understood how ridiculous it must’ve sounded to every person she’d ever said it to. All the rolled eyes, carefully blank looks, and disbelieving “uh huhs” she’d steamrolled over were rising up to mock her now. She could only stand, slack-jawed, as she tried to work out where to begin with the obvious wrongness of those words. She was startled out of her disorientation by the sound of nervous throat clearing.

“Hullo, Buffy,” said Spike, looking up at her from behind lowered lashes. She wondered, not for the first time, how he managed to make her name sound like “goddess” after it had been dipped in chocolate. Dark chocolate. The good kind. He transmuted awe and sensuality into sound waves — just a few syllables with the power to liquify her bones. It felt like he was drawing a warm blanket of attention and intimacy around her.

How dare he? How dare he say her name like that after all this time _and_ in front of Skankzilla? It was private.

She tossed her hair and glared at him, not really knowing how else to respond. He shrugged and turned with a sigh to check Drusilla over for injuries, tsking at the drops of blood dotting her fingers. He pulled a hanky out of one of the leather duster’s deep pockets and dabbed at her hands. Drusilla hummed and gazed up at the dome, allowing him to fuss, but not taking any notice.

“You want to be more careful, pet,” he said, letting her hands drop when he was done.

“My hands must weep too, Spike.”

“’Spose so,” he sighed. “Still, you’ve mussed up your pretty frock. Thought you wanted to make a good impression, yeah?”

She made a little moue, and her eyes got even more enormous. In Buffy’s opinion, she looked like some sort of unattractive, bug-eyed thing. A pug or an amphibian. Apparently Spike did not see it that way.

“Never mind, lamb. You’re doing fine,” he soothed. He turned to Buffy. “Dru wanted to come, Slayer. Wants to be of use.”

Buffy slowly blinked and shook her head in a way that was reminiscent of Joyce when she’d been hit with too much information at once. “Okay, that’s it! I cannot believe you! Where’ve you been the past few years? Squiring Looney Tunes around Africa or something?”

He looked uncomfortable. Good. “That’s not how—“

 _So_ not interested in his excuses. She interrupted. “And, yeah, I could’ve used a souled vampire on the team. Plenty of times. But hey, it looks like they’re just not very dependable. So, no. Not hiring. You can leave your resume with my secretary on your way out.”

She whirled around to stomp off, but he caught her arm, stopping her mid-whirl. She glared up into his face, surprised to see that his annoyance was just as plain as her fury.

“Would you just listen, for once in your life? She could be of real help with what’s coming.”

Buffy pointedly shifted her gaze to where he gripped her bicep. After a long moment, he released her and held his hands up in surrender.

“Fine. Have it your way. We’ll be seeing you.”

“Not if I see you first,” she muttered, and continued her rudely interrupted storming off.

+++

It’s not like she hadn’t known that Spike wasn’t actually dead. Eventually, it had come out. Harmony had been at some parley — personal assistant to a demon mucky-muck — where both Andrew and Willow represented the Council of Slayers. She’d said something to Andrew that pinged with Willow, and she’d thoroughly “debriefed” Andrew afterward, followed by an extensive internet search. When she was sure, she’d come to Buffy, armed with reams of news stories, YouTube videos, and other things that she claimed were incontrovertible proof  — Buffy suspected a piece of Andrew’s hide was among the unmentionables — of the continued existence and heroic undertakings of one William the Bloody.

That was fully 15 months after the Sinkhole of Sunnydale, and Buffy just hadn’t known what to do with the info. She’d had a story that she told herself, that Spike had sacrificed himself heroically to save the world and, not incidentally, her. He hadn’t chosen to leave her, the first man who hadn’t. Suddenly, that story was just a story, and not a very believable one.

Willow had of course wanted to saddle up, track him down, and fix everything. Buffy knew there were some things that couldn’t be fixed. It was a little worrisome how Willow still failed to grasp that.

> “Look, Will. I know you’re trying to help, but the best thing we can do for Spike is let him do what he wants. He’s earned that much.”
> 
> “But Buffy, he wants you! He loves you! It’s just cruel to leave him out there all by himself. You still love him, right?”
> 
> Buffy and love: so not in the cards.
> 
> “Love isn’t always enough. Sure, he loved me. And I took advantage of that, big time. You don’t know how it was; I hurt him a lot. So much that he’s probably relieved to be free of me. Now that he’s had some time away… Well, if he needs me, he’ll find me when he’s ready.”
> 
> “He tried to! Andrew said he went all the way to Rome to find you. That’s gotta count for something, right?”
> 
> At Buffy confused look, Willow reminded her about the Council’s security protocol for senior members. Doubles in high profile places. Right. Buffy wondered why she never got the Tour of Europe option. North Beach was nice enough, but she doubted it compared with Italy. Not that it changed the matter at hand.
> 
> “Okay, maybe he wanted to talk. But you know how Spike is. If he’s determined, he keeps after a thing. Otherwise: oooh shiny! I’m not going to stalk him based on one visit to a place I’ve never even been.”
> 
> She could tell that Willow wanted to say more, to reassure her about her loveableness, so she changed the subject to what they could do to punish Andrew. That was always good for an afternoon’s entertainment.

 

Now, it appeared that Spike was finally ready to face her. She wished she could say the same.

+++

Spike and Dru watched the end of Buffy’s ponytail bobbing brightly in the darkness until it disappeared around a building.

“She’s glorious, Spike. All fire and tiger spittle.”

“Yeah.” He closed his eyes and tasted the air, ensuring he had the latest version of the Slayer’s scent. It was largely unchanged, though there was perhaps a little less candy-sweetness and more of the savory about her. She was years past her fruity lip gloss phase, then. He again fingered the shoulder of his Kevlar vest, trying to see if she’d put a dent in it. It seemed undamaged. “Got claws, too. Remember that, Dru.

“You’ll find the streak of butter in her. She’ll run round and round you, never noticing ’til you’re licking her off your fingers.”

He shook himself at that. Best remember he was on a job. “Right. We’ve time to kill before we get you home. Want to see the bison or the sea lions?”

She clapped her hands with glee and they set off for nearby Fisherman’s Wharf. As they walked, he tried to understand why things had gone so wrong.

He hadn’t been in Buffy’s presence for 30 seconds before they’d come to…not blows, not exactly — but near enough. He’d told himself that he’d never, not ever — yet there he was, tackling her to the ground rather than saying, “Hello.” After everything, every precaution, he was still the same: a bad, brutal man. He couldn’t seem to be anything else. This was going to go badly, and it was going to be his fault.

The stench as they neared the place was dreadful, but it didn’t seem to bother Dru. She smiled widely at the sight of all the wriggling warm bodies laid out on the floating pallets and hummed happily along with the raucous din the animals made. She led the way through the unguarded barricade to the lower level, a scant distance above the high tide line, winding her way among the pilings to the edge nearest the creatures. Spike lit a cigarette, partly to mask the overwhelming scent, fading back to let Dru do her thing unimpeded.

She stood at the edge of the pier, her body swaying, her upper arms held tight to her sides, hands waving gracefully at waist height. A few of the sea lions twisted around to look directly at her. A handful bobbed their heads in her direction, a gesture she returned. Two of the largest ones slipped into the water making for the place where Dru now waited on her knees. He noticed that a significant number of the medium sized animals shuffled nervously away, moving as far from the vampires as possible.

The two large sea lions were bobbing before Dru, noses stretched up to meet her as she leaned down toward them. After a lengthy period of what he could only call communing, her hands darted out to grasp one, hauling it out of the water and clasping it to her breast. Spike tensed. It was so large that most of its tail remained in the water, yet Drusilla handled it with ease. She bent to nuzzle its neck as would a lover — or a vampire. Its head lolled to the side, in seeming invitation. The bones in her face shifted, and she struck, taking a few quick draughts of warm, live blood. She stopped almost before she had begun, leaned her temple against that of the sea lion, kissed it gently, and lowered it into the water. She stared into its black eyes until it blinked and ducked under the waves.

While the other followed the one that had been bitten, herding it slowly back toward their berth, Spike moved to check on Dru. She knelt on the decking, her body rocking in a slow circle. Her eyes were shut tight as she licked her lips.

“The sea is so vast, Spike. The blood of the earth, beating away against the shores. So full of life, and of death. I feel the chill fingers creep, creep, creeping ever closer. It wants to poke, and pull, and rend, and crush. The water will run red, though not yet. The living things may yet have defenders, even among the dead.”

Her eyes sprang open and she clutched his arm. “We must be ready.”

Behind her, he noticed a commotion among the animals, a series of searching cries. He scanned the water and saw a small dot heading their way, its wake barely noticeable in the gloom.  Dru’s head snapped around and she scrambled back when she saw a pup swimming toward them.

“I mustn’t, I mustn’t, I mustn’t,” she muttered. “No lambs, no tiny chicks, not a drop or a drib. The small things are so easily broken. I’m a bad mummy, Spike. Bind my evil hands and black out my eyes!”

He gathered her shaking body into his arms, and tried to soothe her. “Never mind, pet. You’re on the straight and narrow, now. Helping, that’s you. There’s a good girl.”

She trembled all over and finally broke from his grasp with a wail and fled up the stairs and away from the water. Spike followed her, never noticing the thick coils of fog that slowly rose out of the bay water, causing saplings on the frontage promenade to quiver as they were engulfed in heavy mist.

+++

Buffy managed to get through the patrol and the snack stop without killing anything resembling a civilian or a Slayer. She thought she should get points for that, if anybody was giving them out. Maybe they could introduce that as an incentive program for the girls. Dust 25 vamps, get a new charm for your stake! It had possibilities.

She decided to stop by The Buena Vista Café for a nightcap after sending the squad home. She nursed her single Irish Coffee, and found herself not just remembering, but _dwelling_ , on the thing she most wished not to think about. Spike. No, Dru. No, Spike. God! Having to deal with both of them at once was going to make her head explode.

She tried to remember if she’d ever faced them as a fully functioning duo before. Dru had been sick when Spike was at his strongest, when they first met. Then Dru got better just in time to welcome Angelus back into the family, but Spike hadn’t seemed to be much of a threat while those two had their fun. Spike first teamed up with Buffy in order to spirit Dru out of town, and she hadn’t seen her again until they were both chained up for an action-packed half hour listening to Spike’s declarations in his Bizarro Basement of Woo. After that, Dru hadn’t been a factor.

She’d successfully forgotten all about her. To see her again, Spike doting on her just as he had back in the beginning — it hurt. More than she could have guessed. As a result, her secretly anticipated “reunion” with Spike had come off just about as badly as she could have imagined when she was going over worst-case scenarios. Not that she did that. Much.

Those few minutes in his presence had her spun. He hadn’t changed, of course, but everything was different. For one thing, he’d had a chance to do what he wanted, and what he wanted was Drusilla, not her. It made some sort of twisted sense. They’d been through a lot together. They’d done the whole Bonnie and Clyde thing, then the Sid and Nancy thing, and now they were doing the Liz and Dick thing. Vampire superstars who couldn’t stay out of each other’s orbit. With souls, now. Whoopee.

She knew she hadn’t made it easy for him back in Sunnydale. She couldn’t really see how she could have done things much differently, though. It would have been swell if she’d been able to just relax into being with him, give him more than whatever scant moments were left over after every necessary thing had been dealt with. She’d thought he understood that, but clearly the bare minimum hadn’t been enough. He hadn’t known how she felt, not really. She just wasn’t enough, like always. She was too prickly, too distant, too devoted to her duty to be a sound romantic choice. In addition to everything, she was now forced to face the fact that she, Buffy, was more high maintenance than Batshit Bessie.

She slipped off her barstool, waving goodnight to Kevin the bartender. She bundled up against the late night fog and headed for home. The fog was weird and more swirly than usual. She thought she felt some vamp tinglies, but visibility was awful and they soon faded away. After a five-minute walk, she was entirely out of the fog bank, but the chill was still fierce. She hurried her steps and within minutes was letting herself into her nice, radiator-heated apartment. She rushed through her nightly routine, put on her thickest flannel jammies, and sank with relief into bed. This night couldn’t be over soon enough.

If she dreamed about way too familiar vampires wrestling with giant slugs and grinning at each other with bloody fangs, well, was it any surprise?

+++

They’d had a comfortable bolt-hole in the Haight ever since the summer of love, when Dru had inspired the seemingly never-ending devotion of a Paxulis demon, name of Gordon, who owned a 20-room pile right on Buena Vista Park. He’d set aside some of the tower rooms for her then and there, and they were always available and freshly made-up every time they blew into town during the following four decades.

Paxulis were of the same class of demon as Clem, and were generally not aggressive, being mostly interested in low-impact good times. There was little drama in a Paxulis household, and Spike was having a hard time remembering why they hadn’t been here more often. Oh, right. Because he’d been a jealous ninny who didn’t like the way Gordon looked at Drusilla: all adoration and eagerness to serve. It was uncomfortably like looking at himself. He was a little surprised that he hadn’t killed him early on in their acquaintance. That could probably be put down to the very distracting drugs of excellent quality that Gordon always seemed to keep around. Made a fellow forget what he was so wound up about.

After the night he’d had, a dip into Gordon’s stash was a mighty tempting prospect. Instead, he snagged a beer from the icebox, taking it out back where he flopped onto a deck chair and let his head fall against the headrest with a solid thunk.

He supposed the meeting with Buffy could have gone worse. He and Dru could have been piles of dust, after all. It was his crap luck that she’d run into them before he’d had a chance to explain the situation. He knew very well that she didn’t like surprises. Honestly, nobody liked the feeling that they were the last to know, least of all those supposedly in charge. It was no wonder she’d reacted badly.

They’d been in town for a couple of days already, and he’d dithered the whole time about how to approach her. He’d wanted to break the news about Drusilla gentle-like. In person, for preference. Wasn’t going to text her the news, was he? Even he wasn’t that big a coward. Perhaps he should have taken her to dinner, like old friends do, and let it drop casually… He banged his head against the chair back twice more. He was an idiot and worse, a self-deluded idiot. One, he’d never taken Buffy out to dinner, not once, in all the time he’d known her. They weren’t dinner-going friends. It was completely ridiculous to think they’d ever have something so normal between them. Second, he didn’t think there was any way to tell her about the soul business that would result in calm acceptance. He snorted and raised his bottle in silent salute to Buffy’s pugnacious side. It was one of the things that had first attracted him to her.

He decided he’d had enough of a brood for one night. He drained his beer in one go, stood and stretched. He was still undead, Dru was tucked snugly into bed, and Buffy was a gorgeous bitch who was going to make his existence a glorious torment. All was right with the world, so he toddled off to bed just as the birds began to wake and twitter in the pre-dawn darkness.

If he dreamed of a golden goddess rising from a roiling sea, well, it was hardly surprising. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gorgeous night time photo for the Columbarium, which I've put up at the top, is by **noctographer**. Here's a [link to more of the photographer's work](http://www.panoramio.com/photo/50592731).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dawn makes her feelings about the situation known and Buffy tries not to. Then she gets on with her Sunday, which naturally ends up being weird.

_Palm Sunday/Vernal Equinox_

“Hey, Buffy! Spring break next week! Woo hoo!” chirped the entirely too cheerful voice on the phone.

“Woo and hoo to you, too, Dawn. Tell me all your plans. If I don’t respond, just keep going. Don’t give a thought to the fact that it’s before 11 a.m. on a Sunday.”

“Pfft. You’re not fooling me. You’ve been up for at least 15 minutes. I can hear Mr. Coffee in the background.”

“You never know. I might’ve had a rough night slaying. Or a date,” grumped Buffy, who still hadn’t actually drunk any of the coffee that was indeed dripping noisily into the pot right in front of her. Any second now, she’d be able to get that first cup…

“Good one! Oh, wait. Did you finally take pity on that poor guy from the dojo?”

“I’m not in the business of pity dating. Or any other kind of dating, apparently,” she admitted with a sigh. “Is dating really a ‘business’ anyway? That sounds sorta dodgy.”

“You said it, I didn’t. Anyway, I’m thinking I’ll spend Easter weekend with my big sister in her glamorous big city apartment. What do you say?”

“You mean the dining hall is closing and you’ll take the 20 minute BART ride from Berkeley to come mooch groceries off me?”

“Yup. That about covers it. Oh! And, I’ll be bringing my laundry.”

“I can’t think of anything better,” said Buffy. She meant it. Dawn was just across the bay, but their schedules made getting together all too rare. The prospect put her in a nostalgic mood. “Hey! You want to dye eggs? Maybe watch _The Ten Commandments?_ ”

“Sure. I don’t have classes on Friday, so I’ll come over whenever you’re done with work. How’s the slaying going?”

“Oh, you know. A little light dusting now and then. Nothing too strenuous. No hellmouth equals a well-rested Buffy.” She poured out a cup and took a first, fortifying sip. That hot coffee burn was a welcome friend. The fog in her brain began to lift. “Oh, hey! Weird thing last night. It seems that Drusilla is in town and she’s got a brand spanking new soul. They’re giving ‘em out to anybody, these days.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Cross my heart and hope to, well, make a whole bunch of vampires die. Spike’s with her.” She tacked that on the end, hoping that it would maybe go unnoticed. Like that ever worked.

“You _are_ kidding.”

“Not so much.”

“Oh. My. God. Buffy! I thought he was dead!”

“Again, not so much. Still undead, though, so the jury’s kinda out.”

There was an ominous silence on the other end. “How long have you known?”

She’d known this day would come. She’d hoped for a fun girls’ night out, maybe when Dawn turned 21. She’d imagined slipping the new info about Spike’s status into the middle of a string of amusing “where are they now?” stories. They’d have a laugh about his amazing ability to land on his feet. Or how many lives souled vampires had. Or some other cat-related analogy. No such luck. She briefly wondered if she could get away with a “bad connection” sign off.

“Just tell me.” Dawn’s tone allowed for zero wiggle room. Buffy sighed.

“A few months. Nine, I think.”

“And you didn’t tell me because…”

“I didn’t think it was important! He wasn’t around. You two hadn’t been friends for a while. I figured it would come up when it came up. It’s come up. I’m telling you now.” Buffy was starting to feel aggrieved. She put her mug on the counter so that she wouldn’t accidentally crush it.

“That is such bull, Buffy! You just didn’t want to talk about it. You’d rather let me keep thinking _our friend_ was _dead_ , than talk about it! You’re the Slayer, for crying out loud! How can you be such a chicken? You’re such a big chicken you’re an ostrich!”

“Fine. Yes. I am defective. Thanks for pointing that out,” huffed Buffy. This was exactly why she hadn’t wanted to, well, talk about it.

Dawn relented. “Okay, fine. I get it. I’m glad you told me. Finally. How’d it happen?”

Buffy relaxed. She could do the facts. Facts were good.

“After that whole deal in LA, Willow ran into Harmony, who let slip that Andrew was in touch with Spike, and then it all came out. There was a bunch of mystical stuff. Blah blah blah. He wasn’t pulled out of heaven, though. I made her double-check.” She picked up the mug, drained it, and poured another.

“Jesus,” murmured Dawn. “Our life is really strange. Wait. Andrew knew, too? And he didn’t tell me? I’m gonna make that little weasel suffer.”

“Yeah, no. I think Willow already got to him.”

“We’ll see. So, how’s he doing?” asked Dawn.

“I dunno. You should ask Giles.”

“What? No, not Andrew! Spike! How’s Spike?”

“Oh. Right. Well, he seemed okay. He knocked me down and yelled at me for trying to stake Drusilla, but other than that he seemed good. Hasn’t changed much. Vampire, you know.”

“That’s it? Your long-lost vampire boyfriend shows up and all you can say is ‘same ol’, same ol’?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” said Buffy. The words sounded so familiar and so hollow as they came out of her mouth, she was positive there was an echo somewhere. She could feel a lump in her throat, but swallowed it down with another mouthful of bitter coffee.

“Sure he’s not. C’mon Buffy, give me a little credit. It was obvious how you felt about him.”

“Well, it wasn’t obvious to him! Or else I finally managed to shut him down for good when I got him killed. Gee, if I’d know that’s all it took, I’d have killed him years ago just to stop him from dogging me.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“No. I really don’t. He’s a good guy, you know? A champion. He’s just not my guy. Not anymore." She took a deep breath. "He’s been back for years, Dawn. Years. Since right after Sunnydale.”

She heard Dawn hiss on the other end of the line. She couldn’t bring herself to say the worst part out loud. That he’d never come to her in all that time. That he was as over her as any of her other exes, including Laurence, the watcher wannabe who’d lasted two dates before fleeing back to England. She didn’t have to say it. Dawn was a smart girl. There was a final piece of information that might stop the discussion for good, though.

“Besides, I think he’s back together with Drusilla, now that she’s all soulful.”

Dawn’s squawk told her that the subject was anything but closed. She moved to the couch with her third cup of coffee, and got comfortable while Dawn worked up a full head of steam.

+++

Fully caffeinated and finally off the phone, Buffy considered her options for an unseasonably bright Sunday afternoon. She felt like moving, but tonight was a slaying night, so a regular workout didn’t appeal. She finally hit on Salsa Sunday at the El Rio in the Mission. It would be indoor/outdoor dancing fun and there were almost always people she knew there. Lots of slayers lived in "the Mish". She took a little extra care with her makeup, put together an outfit that was both layered and slinky, and she and her kicky new boots walked down to the BART station for a quick ride to Mission & 24th.

The joint was already hopping when she wound her way through the lemon tree shaded back terrace. One of her fellow squad leaders, Angela, waved from the dance floor where she was dancing with her boyfriend, Marco. One of his numerous cousins, Ernesto maybe, lit up when Buffy came into view. She answered his silent invitation with a wide smile and was soon moving to the music, surrounded by happy, sweaty people. It was the perfect way to take her mind off that thing she was in no way thinking about.

  
Eventually, the band took a break. Buffy, Angela, Marco and Ernesto miraculously found a table on the patio after they made it through the barbecue line, Ernesto was clearly ahead by a few beers — not that Buffy was drinking, it being a Slaying night and all. He was hammering away at his pet subject, the difference between dancing with Latinas and other girls.

“It’s, it’s, it’s like, you know, driving a car with power steering, right? The ladies — my homegirls — they’re just smooth, you know? Just a little touch, and they slip in right where they’re supposed to be. Don’t even have to think about it.”

Marco shrugged noncommittally. Angela rolled her eyes. Buffy wondered how he would hang himself this time.

“Then, you try dancing with somebody from out of the neighborhood, and it’s like losing your hydraulics, eh? You go back to fighting with the wheel, just to stay on the road. Wears me out, man.”

“Sorry,” chirped Buffy, who was having too much fun to be bothered by her apparent failure as a dance partner. She reached for a lime wedge from the bowl on the table, dropping it into her soda.

Ernesto looked stricken. “Ah, no, no, no, _linda_. Not you.” He looked around for help, apparently surprised to see his cousin making a ‘you got yourself into this’ gesture. He struggled to explain to the table at large. “Buffy, she’s like…a jet-powered flying car out there. No gravity — _pero muy rapido_...” He looked dreamily off into space. “I could dance all night with that one..."

Buffy felt her good mood subside as she remembered Spike saying almost the same thing in another bar in another town. That thing she wasn’t thinking about had an uncanny ability to wriggle through the slightest opening and right into her brain.

Angela’s Aunt Celia came bouncing up to their table with her friend Gordon, a helpful Paxulis demon, in tow. She looked around at their variously stunned, amused, and bored expressions.

“Is he talking about the power steering again?” she asked. They nodded. “Tsk. Son, you gotta get onto a new topic.” The band started up again. Celia slapped Ernesto’s arm. “C’mon, let an old lady show you how it’s done.” The family members all disappeared into the crush on the dance floor. Buffy stayed behind with Gordon, poking with a straw at the lime floating in her drink.

“Hey, Gord,” she said, looking up at his pleasant, if somewhat saggy, face.

“How’s my favorite slayer?” asked Gordon.

She smiled. “Your favorite slayer is whichever one you happen to be talking to, doofus.”

He smiled back. “Well, yeah. How stupid to I look?” He let his eyes cross until she snorted, shaking her head. “Uh, Slayer, I wanted to let you know…there’s a bit of rumbling in the underground. I don’t know much yet, but I’m keeping an ear out.”

“Rumbling? That’s better than groaning or screaming, right? How much rumble are we talking about?”

“Mostly just signs and portents, for now. You heard that all the sea lions disappeared last night?”

Buffy hadn’t heard. Nor had she heard that the US Geological Survey was reporting odd readings. Nor that the air currents were apparently shifting in unexpected ways. Signs and portents, indeed.

“Um, do you think that long-lost acquaintances coming to town counts as a sign?” asked Buffy.

Gordon nodded thoughtfully. “It might. Supernatural acquaintance, I presume?” Buffy nodded.

“Could be the sides are lining up, maybe not even knowing why. Best tell your people to get ready for yellow alert or whatever you guys call it.”

“Back on the Hellmouth, we called it ‘apocalypse season’. Though…” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “I wonder what the civilians called it? ‘Duck season’, maybe?”

Gordon returned her grin, though he didn’t look exactly reassured. He shrugged, stood up with his hand held out to her and said, “If the end is coming, better dance while we can.”

For a demon, Gordon made a lot of sense. Buffy had noticed that the friendly ones often did. So she danced.

+++ __

_Later that night…_

Park patrols could be tricky. For one thing, it was really freaking dark at night. There was very little in the way of streetlights and the thick trees blocked even the ambient light of the city. It often required guerilla warfare techniques to protect a population that was scattered and difficult to defend. A population that was also not a lot of fun to deal with, for olfactory and sanity reasons. If you were a vamp, it would probably be a snap to find park-dwelling hobos, but a few heat-sensing, night-vision goggles would have worked wonders for Buffy and her crew.

It was easier with the odd gathering of celebrants. A moonlight drumming circle here, a smattering of skyclad wiccans there, and all they had to do was set up a perimeter while they waited for the participants to tire or the sun to rise. Fortunately, that’s what was on the agenda tonight.

The spring equinox celebrations were happening all over town. One team of slayers was assigned to Dolores Park in the Mission, another to patrol the bonfires on Ocean Beach, and the remaining three teams were covering Golden Gate Park. Although some of the girls were squicked by all the gooseflesh on display, their squad leaders were happy to have a clear defensive goal for the night that didn’t involve a lot of asphalt pounding. So far, it was working well. The vamps were intent on the worshipers, and it made it easy to pick them off when they made their move, well before fangs met overly exposed skin. Buffy doubted that many of the witches even knew about the vampire problem just beyond their circles, or about the slayers that were keeping them safe.

Buffy’s team was assigned to the coven making a circle in the meadow across from the Conservatory of Flowers, a prime location. The Conservatory was a dramatic Fabergé egg of a building, made of glass panels with whitewashed redwood framing. Glowing from within, its interior greenery added a splash of color to the inky night. It gave the impression of faded charm and a slower, more gracious time, peeking from behind its fan at the hurley burley of the modern age. A perfect fit for the theme of tonight’s festivities, it was filled with all the flowering plants and growing things promised by the change of season. If you cracked it open, all sorts of rare pollens and tender young flora would spill out into the wide world…where they would probably be quickly crushed or chilled to death.

Buffy made an effort to shake her dark thoughts. It was silly to give in to doom and gloom when the whole point of tonight was hope and renewal. Worst-Case-Scenario Summers was never far away, but she disliked giving in to that part of herself. She preferred to put her energies into Chipper, Can-Do Buffy, especially when dealing with civilians, two of which were headed her way as midnight passed and the coven wound down.

Buffy noted with satisfaction that as groups broke off and headed for home, the slayers divided up to provide a shadowy escort to the nearby road. But these two weren’t headed for a car or the late-night bus stop, they were headed for the Conservatory. One of them was very small and fidgeting in a distinctive way.

As they came closer, she made out a woman wearing a hoodie, a short skirt over sturdy leggings, a sensible amount of artful bundling: a knitted scarf, hat, gloves, and clompy boots. One hand was being held by a child wearing a slightly pinker version of the woman’s outfit, with an additional tutu over it all, and some very striking miniature purple cowboy boots. They made directly for Buffy, who was standing between the swiftly dismantling circle and the Conservatory. The woman — not young, not old — smiled warmly at Buffy while the little girl held on tight and danced in consternation.

“Um, we were hoping for an escort to the restrooms. It’s an emergency,” the woman explained. The little girl nodded gravely.

“Sure!” replied Can-Do Buffy. There’d been a flurry of emails over the issue of Port-a-Potties being “unconducive to the dignity of the sacred observance”. They’d all been briefed about an agreement with the Conservatory to provide late night access as part of the assembly permit. She took off at a brisk clip and waved them after her. “Right this way.”

They trotted up the wide stairway. “You guys have been really great tonight,” said the woman.

“So…I guess we’re not as stealthy as we thought, huh?”

“Nah, you were very unobtrusive. I’m on the organizing committee, so the security arrangements were kinda my thing.”She paused briefly to look back at the emptying field when they reached the top of the stairs. “Gotta say, this was way better for the energy than the previous methods. Slayers just add that extra zing, you know?”

Not really. The zing was more Willow’s area.

“We aim to please, I guess.” She pushed into the Conservatory with a nod to the drowsy night watchman who silently pointed them in the necessary direction. The little girl made a dash for the ladies room as soon as the icon on the door came into view. Buffy slipped in right behind her, reaching out with her senses. She got an all clear on the weirdness meter and relaxed. A stall door slammed behind the little girl and her sigh of relief echoed through the room.

“Thanks,” said the woman. “I know it wasn’t really in the contract.”

Buffy waved her hand dismissively. “Emergencies are a slayer specialty. All part of the service.”

The woman smiled even more warmly than before, and stuck out her hand. “Eleanor Rausch.”

Buffy made sure not to overdo the handshaking. “Buffy Summers.” Eleanor’s face showed a start of recognition at the name.

“Oh, wow. Now I really feel stupid. Asking the Heroine of the Hellmouth to pull latrine duty.”

Buffy frowned. “There were a lot of heroes that day.” She looked around, her expression clearing. “Believe me, this is a cushy gig. Any assignment that includes indoor plumbing is already worlds ahead of the curve.”

Eleanor chuckled. The stall door opened to the sound of rushing water. The little girl marched over to the bank of sinks to begin a very involved hand-washing process, on tiptoe. Her tights and tutu were twisted in an uncomfortable-looking way. Eleanor went over to help with final wardrobe adjustments. She got a “Stop it, Aunt Ellie!” for her trouble, but with just a few yanks, all was properly straightened and fluffed. The girl dried her hands very thoroughly indeed, and then planted herself in front of Buffy.

“Are you a good witch or a bad witch?” she demanded.

Buffy knew this. She brought a hand up to her chest. “Why…I’m not a witch at all!” The little girl looked unconvinced.

“Buffy this is Edie, my niece. We’re in a ‘Wizard of Oz’ phase at the moment. Honey, this is Buffy. She’s not a witch. She’s a slayer. A warrior for the good guys. We were lucky to find her tonight.”

“Pleased to meet you Edie,” said Buffy, bending over and holding out her hand. Edie shook it solemnly.

“Not a witch?” she asked with a pout.

“Nope. But I know some good ones. I’ll bet you do, too.”

Edie nodded proudly. “My Aunt Ellie is a good witch.”

“I might be a good witch, but I’m a very bad aunt to keep you up ‘til all hours like this. Time to get you home to bed.”

“No!” cried Edie, and darted out the door. Eleanor rolled her eyes.

“Every freaking time,” she muttered, stalking out the door after her. Buffy followed, unsure whether to worry or not.

Eleanor was standing outside the door, head tilted. Buffy could hear the clatter of tiny cowboy boots leading deeper into the Conservatory. Eleanor started off after them, but then turned back to Buffy.

“Would you mind helping me to catch her? I’m sorry…” She shrugged helplessly.

“No problem,” said Buffy. She immediately loped off into a low-lit room full of enormous palms soaring high above her. Bushes with leaves four feet across blocked her view of what lay just beyond the curve of the path she followed. Small running feet sounded before her, behind her the heavier tread of Eleanor’s boots. Edie had got a good head start. Buffy wondered at the girl’s fearlessness, running pell mell through a strange place. It wasn’t dark, exactly, but it was dim, and there were creepy shadows everywhere. She wouldn’t be surprised to find little Edie in the slayer ranks in another dozen years or so.

As she passed through the archway to the potted plants gallery, she started to feel the old, familiar tingle. Vampire. Someplace nearby. So not a good time for this. She poured on the speed through the straight walkway, barely noticing the banner over the door to the final room as she sped through. It read, “Wicked Plants: Botanical Rogues & Assassins”.

The running feet in front of her fell silent. She slowed to a walk, looking around the final exhibit. It was a Tim Burton-esque nightmare of a garden, an overgrown jumble with odd Gothic topiary baring fauna-like teeth, vines hanging in strangling loops, gorgeous flowering plants studded with large, glistening barbs.

She edged around an ivy-choked gazebo, only to find the body of a man sprawled across its steps. One hand was frozen in the act of clawing at his throat, the other clutched a goblet. His face was lost in leafy shadow, but he wore an old-fashioned suit, chalky white. She bent down for a closer look, and found a distorted face as white as marble. Whiter. She checked the neck, and her fingers came away covered in white dust.

Plaster. A fake.

She looked wildly around and saw more statues in various poses of death. One lay headfirst in a pond choked with weeds, its long white skirts spread in a way that Buffy found disturbingly familiar. Not that the whole thing wasn’t disturbing. It had only taken a few moments to understand the illusion, that all the faux bodies were part of the exhibit, but the vampire tingles were no fantasy and Edie was still missing. Then she heard the girl’s piping tones.

“Are you a good witch or a bad witch?”

Buffy whirled to see Edie on the other side of the exhibit, standing a few feet away from the statue of a woman slumped on a bench. As Buffy breathed a sigh of relief, the statue shuddered and shrank back, lifting its head to reveal the familiar face of Drusilla, her eyes wide with something that almost looked like fear. She was worrying a long flat something in her hands, stroking and folding it obsessively. Probably something gross, thought Buffy.

Buffy darted forward, but before she could reach the girl, a dark form dropped from above to crouch between Edie and Dru. With a flapping of leather, it arranged itself into Spike, who settled his predator’s eyes on Edie, chuckling in a less than reassuring way. What was up with him, jumping out of the dark every night?

“Once upon a time, she was a very bad witch indeed,” he said. “The very worst sort. Ate up little children and played dice with their knuckle bones. Isn’t that right, Dru?”

Dru trembled and nodded. “Was wicked.”

Buffy inched forward, whispering urgently. “Spike! You’re scaring her!”

His eyes never left Edie’s face. “No, not this one. Don’t scare easy, do you, sweetling? She won’t cry ‘til she’s safe back with her mum.” He stood abruptly and glided back to stand beside Dru, resting a hand on her shoulder.

“One day the bad witch woke up, and all her wickedness was like a bad dream. Remembered her life from before, when she was as good a girl as they come. Before an evil wizard came and twisted her into a dreadful thing.”

Buffy reached Edie’s side and grabbed her unresisting hand, tugging her backward. The little girl seemed transfixed by Spike’s story and barely budged. Buffy heard Eleanor enter the room and gasp. She gestured for her to stay back.

“Swore to use her powers for good from that day on. Promised she’d be a good girl, and never again harm the hair on a little one’s head.” He looked down at Dru, who nodded solemnly, eyes fixed on his face.

He was suddenly squatting in front of Edie again, without Buffy ever seeing him move.

“Thing is, no matter how hard you try to be good, sometimes the bad just…forces its way out.” He shifted into vamp face and smiled his fangiest smile. In one motion, Buffy shoved him hard and swept Edie up into her arms and ran for the exit, grabbing Eleanor by the elbow as she passed.

“Isn’t that right, pet?” Spike called after them from his sprawl on the ground. Buffy never saw him waving his fingers at a saucer-eyed Edie peeking over her shoulder, nor Drusilla giving him an accusing look.

They pounded their way out of the building, surprising the now dozing watchman. Once outside, Eleanor pointed toward the road just beyond the pedestrian tunnel opposite the Conservatory. The slayers that remained on guard duty took note of their flight and silently converged on the them at the mouth of the tunnel. Two took point, one provided rear coverage as they made their way through the tunnel and into a small thicket on the other side. Eleanor’s car was less than 50 feet from the grove and they reached it without incident. Edie was silent the whole way, which was starting to creep Buffy out, as grateful as she was not to be dealing with a screaming child. She handed her off to Eleanor as soon as the car door was opened. As Eleanor buckled Edie into her car seat, the girl looked at Buffy.

“Was that the Cowardly Lion?” she asked. “I think he was trying to scare me.” Eleanor looked at Buffy for help.

“No,” replied Buffy. “His name is Spike. He can be very scary.” In fact, Buffy couldn’t remember the last time he’d been quite _that_ scary — except to demons. “You were awfully brave. So was your aunt.”

Eleanor closed the door and walked around to the driver’s side, shaking her head. “I ran like hell. Now I’m gonna drive like a bat outta heck, with full stops at all stop signs and clear use of turn signals.” She looked at Buffy. “I’m still shaking. I can’t believe you’re on a first name basis with…that. You’ve got some ovaries.”

Buffy smiled thinly, accepting Eleanor’s thanks and making sure all the car doors were locked before she drove off. She led the other slayers back to the Conservatory, filling them in on the objective. The watchman was snoring softly behind the counter. They quietly moved to the room where Buffy had encountered Spike and Dru. There were no vampires and no vampire tinglies. All Buffy found was a small pile of shredded palm fronds on the bench where Dru had been sitting.

+++

“It was such a pretty story, but you ruined the ending,” said Dru. “Behaving like a dog on a chain.”

“Having a little fun, is all. The girl’s a rare one. Reminds me of my nib…the Slayer’s sister. She never wanted it sugar-coated, neither.”

“She was all bathed in green fire.”

“Who? Dawn? S’pose she would have been, at that.”

They approached the bison’s paddock and hung their arms over the stout fence, letting the smell of cattle and clover awaken old memories. The bison were huddled together in a bunch, fitfully shifting in their sleep. Dru began humming, eyes closed, head bowed, then slipped over the fence as the largest of the animals heaved itself to its feet. The enormous creature ambled toward Dru, making the earth shiver with each footfall. Dru met it halfway between the fence and the rest of the herd. She lifted her thin hand up to the great beast’s temple. They stared at one another for achingly long minutes.

Spike sat on the top rail of the enclosure, but didn’t interfere. He had his own concerns. Mainly, he wondered if he’d gone too far with the mite and whether it was right to be so pleased about being knocked on his arse by the Slayer’s dainty hand. He knew baiting her wasn’t likely to smooth his way, especially not if she thought he was toying with innocents. But he hadn’t got anywhere by being sweet with her the night before, and he was impatient for her to take notice of him, now that he’d taken the first step.

At last, Dru took her hand away, just as the bison shook his shaggy head. It blinked at her, its comically long lashes arcing through the air, before bowing its head before her. She moved to its shoulder, switched to fangs, and struck. She drank more than she had from the sea lion, the night before, but still not enough to fill her belly. Again, she kissed the small wound closed. The bison bobbed its immense head; Drusilla made a curtsey. It ambled off to join the others in slumber.

Drusilla glided back to Spike, lost in thought. Her brow was furrowed, as if working out a puzzle.

“The earth is restless. There are so many prickles, tickles, and crawling things on its skin. It longs to shake out the wrinkles — snap.” She made a wrist-snapping motion with her hands, as if she were shaking out table linens. “But the seas could engulf all. The memory of the ground is long. The beasts atop it mere mayflies. We cannot ask, but we may receive aid unasked. There’s dirt on the glass, Spike.”

“Good to know,” said Spike.

Drusilla gave him a sharp look. “You’re determined to be naughty.” He shrugged. She reached up to gently tap the tip of his nose. “Never fear. I shall be ‘specially good in your place.”

“Thanks, Dru. Know I’m a handful, at times. See you home?” He stuck his arm out for her, and she rested her fingers lightly upon it with a shy smile. “Scenic route or short way?” he asked.

“Much as I long for the one, I suppose it must be the other,” she replied. “I can be very serious and grown-up, you see.”

He took that as a challenge. Their stately walk soon turned into a silly walks competition, which swiftly became a giggling bout of skipping and twirling until they were dizzy. It was vigorous enough that they didn’t notice the earth shaking below them until the deep, nearly subsonic rumbling stopped them in their tracks. The ground of the meadow rippled under their feet in small waves that moved and grew into swells a foot high. It was almost as if they were being pushed from the park by the earth itself.

+++

Across town, Buffy sat up in bed, watching the ceiling light fixture gently swaying, remembering all the apocalypse-heralding earthquakes she’d experienced in Sunnydale, and wishing that déjà vu didn’t come with a heaping side of dread.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which reports are made, scents are smelled, and sights are seen, pleasant and otherwise.

It turned out the earthquake wasn’t that big a deal. “Just a little one,” the natives all agreed. Buffy wasn’t buying it. Okay, it was great that there wasn’t any property damage to speak of or loss of life, but she knew a bad sign when it shook her awake at 3 AM. Something was coming, like it always did. That was okay, because she would make sure it went back to whatever hell it had crawled out of, like _she_ always did. A slayer’s work is never done.

Unfortunately, that meant research first. It was her day off, but in the interests of getting the research bus moving, she decided to go in anyway. Besides, she didn’t think her mind would go anyplace good if she had too much free time today.

She made it in time for the 11 AM conference call with Slayer Central, settling into the chair closest to the coffeemaker. Sylvia, who ran the Monday meetings, sighed and slid an agenda to her from across the table.

“For all the good it’ll do,” she muttered.

Buffy smiled apologetically. Syl knew she wouldn’t be here if it was business as usual.

“Good morning.” came Giles’ voice over the speaker in the middle of the conference table. She still thought it was way too ‘Charlie’s Angels’ and wondered when they’d convince him to go on Skype. Syl made an “after you” gesture.

“Hiya, Giles,” said Buffy.

“Buffy! This is unexpected. Is everything all right?”

“Pretty much. We could have an apocalypse a’brewin’, though.”

“I see. What are the signs?” Buffy could hear him snapping his fingers urgently, the shuffle of papers and the click of writing implements being readied. She could just make out the sound of a cup and saucer being placed someplace near the speakerphone, followed by a muffled, “Thank you, Laurence.” She grinned. He was so in his element. Also, it was nice that he took her word for things these days. The time was long past that she needed to convince him to take her hunches seriously.

“It’s pretty generic at this point. We had an earthquake last night.”

“A 4.3,” Angela supplied.

“Right. And there’ve been some out of season wildlife defections. I heard there was a mass exodus of sea lions.”

“The bison stampeded out of their enclosure last night,” added Sylvia. “The park rangers are having a hell of a time rounding them all up.”

Buffy shot her an approving glance. “Okay, good. One of our informants contacted me with some vague info about air currents and things like that. Anybody else got anything bizarre? More bizarre than usual, anyway?” Buffy got a cup of coffee while the day-duty squad leaders reported any unusual field notes. Buffy listened to the familiar scratching of Giles’ pen and the newer tippy-tap of distant computer keys coming over the speaker. There wasn’t that much more to tell, all of it pretty mundane, and the conversation soon wound down.

“Thank you all very much. We’ll get started on this right away. I trust the spring equinox celebrations went off without incident?” asked Giles, returning to the regular meeting format.

“Yes, sir,” said Sylvia. “We had a few skirmishes, but all aggressors were defeated. No injuries to any slayers or non-combatants. The Committee of Covens sent over a nice note and a seasonal fruit basket this morning. They were very happy with the new arrangements.”

“Excellent.” Giles sounded pleased.

Oh, right. Last night. She hated to bring him down, but it might be pertinent, so…

“Um, Giles? There is this one other thing that I forgot to mention before. A couple of old acquaintances showed up over the weekend. I don’t know if it means anything, but …”

“Do spit it out, Buffy.”

“Spike was at the park last night.”

“Spike? Our Spike? William the Bloody? In San Francisco? How odd. I’d heard… Still, I imagine he could be useful if the situation becomes serious.”

Buffy felt a bright flash of bad temper and struggled to keep calm. He didn’t seem surprised to hear about Spike’s undustiness, which she should have known. Willow must’ve told him. Spike wasn’t a subject she and Giles ever discussed. But, since he’d already burned to death for them once, it seem beyond callous to discuss Spike’s “usefulness”— especially with the guy who’d conspired to have him assassinated. She decided to soldier on, being info gal, if only to stop him from saying anything more that she might regret.

“He was with Drusilla.”

That stopped him. The other slayers were looking at each other for clues, but none of them knew what she was talking about.

“Magic Eightball says she’s got a soul now.”

“What! That’s…dear lord, the bloody things are sprouting up like mushrooms. Do you believe it?”

“Well, I’ve run into her twice and she hasn’t attacked or threatened me. She’s still a nut bar, but she only registered at about 2 on the Drusilla Creep-o-Meter, so something is seriously different. According to Spike, she wants to help with, quote - what’s coming - unquote.”

“Oh dear. That, more than any number of earthquakes or fleeing animals, makes me think you do indeed have a serious situation on your hands.”

“Tell me about it,” sighed Buffy.

“Yes, well, I’ll do my best to find out what I can on this end. We’ll be in touch as soon as we have anything. Please brief your people about Spike and Drusilla. And Buffy…do be careful.”

In spite of herself, she was touched by the note of concern in his voice. It was clear — to her if not the other slayers around the table — that his worry was for more than just her physical safety.

They wrapped up the call. Sylvia hauled the fruit basket over to the conference table while the others looked expectantly at Buffy for their instructions. She tried to organize the tangle in her mind. There was so much she could say about Spike, much of it completely not pertinent to the current situation. She decided to keep it strictly professional. Diving in, she sketched out a brief history of souled vampires, of their past cooperation with the slayers, of Spike’s many contributions to the cause, and of Drusilla’s status as a seer. She thought she did a pretty good job of keeping her opinions out of it.

The squad leaders didn’t seem shocked at the idea of friendly demons. It was something about many new slayers that kept surprising Buffy, though she supposed it made sense. The Slayer Council had resources aplenty, but the training it provided tended toward identification and field skills rather than the kind of top-down indoctrination that she vaguely recalled from high school. Even when she mentioned that Spike and Dru had taken out three slayers between them in the century before their souls were even a glimmer, the women looked more thoughtful than freaked.

“So,” Angela said. “I guess that means we’d _really_ rather have them on our side, huh?”

“Um, yeah. But even if they are, I want everybody to use extreme caution around these two. I can tell you from experience that the whole ‘soul-having’ thing does not make them safe. These guys are vamps, not teddy bears.”

They decided to send out a ‘do not stake except to protect or defend’ order along with Spike and Dru’s descriptions to the evening patrols. Buffy had to admit to some relief about that. She wasn’t sure if it was the well-being of the slayers or of Spike that had been worrying her. Probably the slayers. Spike might be acting a little off, but she doubted he was off enough to turn down a healthy brawl with a team of attacking slayers, if only for the fun of it. Some of the girls might get hurt, or demoralized or something.

It being her day off, she left at around 2 o’clock to run her Monday errands. She picked up a few groceries, her laundry, and her favorite conditioner from the salon down the street. She did a little window-shopping on her way back to the apartment, and found herself stepping into the butcher shop to buy some blood. It was only good manners, she told herself. If an old friend came to town, it was only being cordial to stock up on a few of his (or her) favorites, in case he (or she!) dropped by, right? If she knew Willow was coming, she’d pick up some of that weird tea she liked. Definitely. She was not planning to get anchovies and marshmallows for Dawn, though. She had to draw the line somewhere.

She stowed everything back at the apartment and straightened up the place a bit. She caught up with the shows she’d DVR’d for an hour or two and popped a Lean Cuisine into the microwave for dinner. After spending some time checking out Zappos.com and MedievalArmory.com she decided to walk down to North Beach for dessert.

The weather continued to be freaky. One block would be clear and cold, the next would be foggy. Around the corner from that there would be a gale blowing, over the next rise a pocket of houses would still be giving off the heat of the day at 8:30 at night. Freaky, yes, but essentially normal for this town. She liked the variety.

She was able to get a window seat overlooking Columbus, flirting pleasantly with her waiter when he brought her tiramisu and cappuccino. She was a semi-regular customer, and the flirtation was part of the ritual. She didn’t mind eating alone, not anymore, but it was nice to have a bit of lighthearted banter with her evening pick-me-up. In fact, she was so busy laughing at Carlo’s innuendo-laden riff on hot coffee that she almost missed seeing Spike walking down the sidewalk, Drusilla on his arm, before he disappeared into City Lights Bookstore.

Buffy’s smile faded. She signaled for the check, another thing that was good about being a regular. They were quick, knowing that she often ran out after “old friends” (aka vampires). She pulled her knit beanie down around her ears and made it up to the corner just as her quarry came out of the shop. Spike tucked a small book-shaped package into a pocket of his leather duster before sauntering up the street with Dru. Buffy followed them up Broadway, stopping often to look in windows and otherwise dawdling. They turned off the main road after a couple of blocks. When she judged that they should be about a block ahead she peeked around the corner to get a bead. Oh yeah. They were oblivious. She was stealthy like a ninja.

The aromas coming from Henry’s Hunan across the street made her vow to skip the Lean Cuisine for something better tomorrow night. The area was peppered with chic advertising agency offices, inaccessibly steep hills, and dead ends, but nothing that would draw night-dwelling fun-lovers. The restaurant was the only thing stirring at this time of night. The neighborhood didn’t have the feel of the standard vampire hangout. But then, she supposed that Spike and Dru weren’t so much the standard issue vampires these days.

They stopped at the next corner. They seemed to confer for a moment, and then Dru continued to glide down the street, leaving Spike behind to … do what exactly? He was just standing there, head bowed, back to her, facing something that looked like a big tombstone from this distance. He was dappled in black and silver, almost lost in the shadows cast by the streetlight shining through the leaves of the tree beside him. She felt a familiar twinge of homesickness. She still missed having him around in the quiet of the night.

“Hurry up, Slayer. You’re going to want to see this.” His voice floated up the block between them.

Okay, so maybe she wasn’t the stealthiest. She squared her shoulders and strode down the block like she had just as much right to be here as he did. Because she did.

“Do you feel it?” he asked as she reached the corner where he was waiting. He gestured with his chin to indicate the surrounding area. She reached out with her senses but couldn’t really feel anything else with him standing there radiating his Spikeness at her. “Hallowed ground, this is.”

“Can’t be all that hallowed, if you’re not on fire,” she retorted.

“Now, now, Slayer. No need to be nasty. We’ve all got our spiritual side. This is a shrine to great events, one close to all our hearts.”

Shrine? She suddenly realized the big tombstone thingy squatting on the corner was actually an historical marker with a big brass plaque stuck to the front. There wasn’t enough light for her to make it out, but whatever it was, this whole scenario felt decidedly un-Spike-like.

“On this spot, Philo T. Farnsworth transmitted the first television image.” he intoned, his hand over his heart, looking for all the world like a leather-clad altar boy. “Father of the telly — conjured it up right here. Makes me come over all tingly.”

She blinked at him. It was _kinda_ Spike-like, but if he started running around town pointing out any other areas of historical interest, she was going to have to wonder if she’d ever really known him.

“Ooookay. That’s moderately interesting, I guess. You’re giving guided tours, now?”

He shot her a look of annoyance. “Could do. ‘Course, willfully ignorant little chits have got no appreciation for the finer things, so there’s no point, is there?”

“Hey! I’m not--” she took a deep breath, struggling not to rise to the bait. “Fine. What I really want to know is, what you’re doing here? You and Drusilla? This is the third night in a row that we’ve all just _happened_ to be in the same place at the same time. What gives?”

He smiled fondly up the street. “Ah, Dru. Always got a method to her madness, so to speak. I just go where I’m told.”

Buffy felt her chest give a twinge at the obvious affection in his voice. She suppressed the urge to run after Dru and tear out all her hair. It was ridiculous. She hadn’t seen Spike in years, after all. They were both free to choose whatever lovers they liked. She had no claim on him, as the disaster in the Hellmouth and afterward proved. He never believed she loved him, and he never gave her any reason to pine for him. No kisses or promises. And, anyway, if she was going to tear out anybody’s hair, it really ought to be his! Or maybe her own.

“So, you think Dru is, what — using thrall to bring me to her? Why?”

“Nooo,” he drawled. “I think she sees where you’re going to be and finds a reason to be there, too.” She pursed her lips and gave him her best ‘go on’ look. The why-the-heck-would-she-want-to-do-that was implied. He sighed. “Because she wants to help your whole sorry species, and somebody told her you’re the go-to gal for the world saving. Might’ve been me. Might’ve been one of her dollies. Buggered if I know how her mind works, just know it does.”

Humph. Fine. So, now Dru was the brains of the operation? Maybe she always had been. Still, Spike’s confidence that thrall wasn’t in play was comforting. Regular old divination was less disturbing than mind control. Slightly.

“I’m sure her altruism knows no bounds. But what are you guys actually _doing_? When you’re not terrifying little girls, that is?”

He looked confused for a moment. “Didn’t think the mite…” At Buffy’s expression, he changed gears, standing straighter. “Gathering intel, Slayer. What else? So far, it hasn’t involved a lot of head bashing, so I’m just taking in the sights while Dru does the heavy lifting. Want to come watch?”

Buffy wasn’t at all sure she did, but Spike had already whirled around and was walking up the street the way Drusilla had gone. She hurried after him, trying to maintain a façade of cool detachment.

He reached the Filbert Steps and headed up the hillside, taking two steps at a time. It was hard to maintain an indifferent air while trotting up a dizzying series of steeply pitched stairs. Spike was waiting for her at the top. She refused to let him see her the slightest bit winded, and walked past him without a pause. He fell into step beside her, and soon they were standing at the base of fog-shrouded Coit Tower.

It wasn’t particularly late, but there weren’t any people around. The sight and sounds of the city around them were muffled in the mist, lending the tower grounds an eerie otherworldly feeling.

Drusilla detached herself from the shadow of a nearby tree, striking a pose with arms stretched up and out at odd angles, palms raised to the sky.

“What is she doing?” asked Buffy in a hushed voice.

“No idea,” he answered, matching her volume. She could hear that he was smiling and felt another stab of annoyance. She couldn’t see what was so admirable about Dru and her bizarre antics. Maybe it was a sire thing.

Dru stayed perfectly still, the hazy light illuminating her like one of those soft-focus silent films. Before long, a small shape fell from one of the trees and glided to a stop on her open palm. Another plummeted downward, only to sketch a little comma in the air and come to rest in her other hand. It shook itself and extended its wings as it waddled in an off-balance circle, eventually settling.

“Petty Polly,” crooned Dru, first to one then the other of the birds. Several more swooped down from the trees, and soon she had birds all up her arms and atop her shoulders.

Their color was muted in the diffuse light, but Buffy recognized them as the non-indigenous wild parrots known to hang out in the area. They shuffled and bobbed, oddly silent for a flock of birds famous for their noise. They appeared to be waiting.

Out of the gloom came an unkempt bird, patchy feathers askew, flying on an ungainly trajectory toward the strange tree formed by Drusilla’s outstretched arms. It landed gracelessly on one shoulder as the other birds grumpily made room. Dru whipped her face around, staring into the new arrival’s beady eyes. As they regarded one another, their heads tilted to the side at an alarming angle. They almost looked like two sides of a peculiar interspecies mirror. A little part of Buffy hoped that Dru’s head would snap right off. A nice, self-inflicted dusting would make her life so much simpler.

The tableau stretched on for long minutes. Dru shook her head in consternation.

“Too many small scratchings. There’s something peeping out from the muddle, but it won’t speak to me,” she accused.

The bird straightened to give a single screeching cry, and most of the others took wing, disappearing into the shadowy gray. The original two birds remained in her upturned palms, the scruffy one on her shoulder. She brought her hands down, so the three birds were level.

Their heads swiveled jerkily to and fro, as if in a quick, on-field huddle. Without warning, the two in Dru’s hands struck, scoring a vicious, bloody slash into each of her palms with their beaks, before flying away, squawking.

“Oh,” said Dru in small, wondering voice. With a crunch, her face shifted to the fangy version. Buffy fought the urge to take a step back. She glanced at Spike, who only looked on with concentration, conspicuously _not_ paying Buffy any mind.

Dru held her bloody hands trembling before her yellow eyes, then turned to look at the bird still resting on her shoulder. It tilted its head again, but to Buffy’s eye it no longer looked inquisitive. It looked like it was offering its scrawny bird-neck to a vampire. That couldn’t be right, could it?

With a cry, Dru snatched it from her shoulder and bit down. Two swallows later, she fell to her knees, keening. She cradled the body of the mangled bird loosely in her bloody fingers, human features contorted in grief. Spike appeared at her side almost before Buffy realized he had left her own. She cautiously inched closer. He crouched down before Drusilla, one hand gliding over her hair soothingly while the thumb of the other tried to brush away the bits of down clinging to the corners of her mouth.

“There now, pet. Was his time, is all.”

Dru shook her head wildly. “I never wished to harm even a feather! I’m a wicked, careless girl,” she wailed. “Now he’s broken and it’s all my fault,” she choked out and began to sob in earnest.

“Don’t think so, Dru,” soothed Spike. “Looked to me like he had something to tell you, and couldn’t wrap his little bird brain around another way to do it. Isn’t that right?”

“But,..” she began, looking down at the body and shuddering.

“Hush, now, princess. He was old and sick. Wanted to help his flock. Died a hero, getting his message back to headquarters.” He lightly tapped her temple. “That’s you, innit? Don’t let the message go to waste, now. Try to remember, there’s a good girl.”

She bit her lip, looking up. “It’s burning and bright — hurts my eyes — but I remember the way the silken threads waved. So many tiny thoughts, floating like kites, blown about in the slightest breeze. Shhh.” She held a blood stained finger to her lips and looked up at Spike playfully through her lashes. Buffy felt the now familiar clench in her chest at the sight. She breathed in through her nose and forced herself to relax, to listen.

“There’s a lovely secret. Do you know it? It’s shiny and shimmering, and it will keep us safe from the lightning when it comes,” whispered Dru. Her wide eyes then clapped on Buffy, focused, clear and piercingly lucid. “It’s coming very soon, now.”

She held up the bird to Spike, who patted his pockets until he found his recent bookstore purchase. He slipped the book out of its paper bag and back into his duster pocket, holding the bag out to receive the body. Dru reverently placed it inside, and rose to her feet with preternatural grace, daintily licking her fingers. Spike scrunched up the top of the bag and stuck it under his arm.

“I must go to bed without any supper, Spike. That must be the penalty for my impulsiveness.”

“If you think you ought,” said Spike. “I’ll see you home, then.” Drusilla nodded but gave him a significant look. “Oh. Right.” She started down the hill as he reluctantly turned to Buffy.

“So, um, Slayer. I’ve got to go, but we…” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Seems like you and I still have a lot to talk about.”

“If you say so,” she said, channeling her inner Dawn to get the right note of nonchalance.

He had the gall to actually smile at that. “’M sure you have questions ‘bout things...”

“Only a hundred or so,” she muttered.

He soldiered on. “Dru thinks – sod that — _I_ think we should have a little parley, make sure we’re all up to speed on the coming menace and that.” He looked pleased with himself for this splendid idea.

“So, like, a business meeting,” she stated flatly, brows raised.

“Yeah.” He looked at her and must’ve seen the skepticism on her face. “Well, no. Just want to talk to you, Buffy. Or listen, more like.” He grinned at her. “Truth to tell, 'm sort of looking forward to that telling off I so richly deserve.”

He was so weird. She was probably just as weird for finding it cute, even now.

“I guess I can make room in my busy schedule for _that_. I’m not patrolling tomorrow night, so…”

“I’ll be there.”

“Uh huh. You’ll be _where?”_

He looked caught out. “Wherever you say, of course.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Come over to my place after sunset. I guess you already know the address.”

At least he had the grace to look guilty.

“Better not keep Dru waiting,” she added. He started.

“Right. Well, night then.”

“Good night, Spike.”

They turned awkwardly and walked off in their respective directions. After they’d each gone a block or so, Buffy heard the sound of happy whistling in the distance. She felt a little frisson of anticipation.

She didn’t see him tossing the bag of bird over a fence as he headed down the hill to meet Dru.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Buffy possibly overthinks things before she and Spike try that new-fangled “communication” thing.

Spike wanted to talk. Buffy was terrified.  
  
Oh god. Was he going to give her the “I’ll always treasure what we had” speech? And what had they had, anyway?  
  
First, they’d had that years-long “fight to the death” stage of their relationship. Which hadn’t lasted all that long, when she really thought about it. They’d fought at Back-to-School Night, the wannabe-vamp club, and the evil church, but after that he’d come to her with his wacky truce idea. Then he kidnapped Xander and Willow, then another truce. Then the sunlit fight at UC Sunnydale, truce; the Adam debacle, truce; attacking her after his faux-chippectomy, truce. It was hard not to see a pattern.  
  
But after all that, something changed. She didn’t want to examine it too closely. Something that had come to seem like a natural law: Spike revolves around Buffy. Now it was just another discarded scientific theory. A quaint notion. She needed to let it go, and get with the new knowledge. Only, it was so hard to think that everything he’d given her, done for her, sacrificed for her was just the result of a fleeting obsession, like she always used to say, but hadn’t really believed for a long time. Not since Glory, if she was honest.  
  
She groaned when the alarm went off. Tuesday was the beginning of her regularly scheduled work week. She stood under the shower for longer than was strictly necessary, then sipped the day’s first cup of coffee while she gazed out her kitchen window at the view. Mostly, the view consisted of the backs of the apartment buildings behind her own, but there was a small gap that allowed a sliver of a glimpse of the bay and Alcatraz Island if she stood just to the right of the sink. The air was sparkling clear, which meant a sunny spring day colder than the coldest day of winter in Sunnydale. Yippee. It looked like a day for layers, like every other day in San Francisco.  
  
She made it to the office before the eleven o’clock conference call, but the only new reports were about a swarm of low intensity earthquakes and Drusilla’s “coming very soon” comment of dubious value. Giles had followed a promising lead on a prophecy, but it turned out to be a description of the eruption of Santorini centuries earlier. He refused to concede that the current portents were just too vague, and said he had a few other things he planned to investigate.  
  
She spent the next couple of hours working out the following week’s patrol routes and training exercises with the other squad leaders. Many of the girls’ guardians had requested that they be excused for family trips during the various Spring Break weeks — and why couldn’t the private, public, and parochial schools get their acts together, anyway? — so it took some extra juggling to make it all work. After that, she grabbed a smoothie and took a walk down the Embarcadero to clear her head before classes started.  
  
Without the clutter of Slayer administration to distract her, it was impossible not to think about Spike. He’d been weirdly helpful and friendly the night before. That was good, she supposed. It was _nice_ that he came without a chip on his shoulder. He was acting like he was on vacation, unconcerned and sort of relaxed, without his trademark intensity.  
  
Or, if he did still have that intensity, it wasn’t directed at her any more. He seemed plenty concerned about Drusilla, rushing to her side over just a little scratch or two, escorting her home. He was giving Buffy all sorts of space, which she knew should be a relief, but just made her feel off-balance. She obviously wasn’t his priority, even if he was trying to be helpful to her. It made her wonder if she’d always misunderstood the nature of their relationship.  
  
  
  
She sat under the giant sculpture of the bow and arrow by the waterfront and looked out over the bay, slowly tearing her empty cup into a spiral strip of plastic. Maybe the soul had changed more things than she’d known. Maybe she was so used to his devotion that she had just assumed it was still there that last year in Sunnydale. Maybe he’d shifted his focus to fighting the good fight, and away from her, and she’d been so focused on the battle that she hadn’t noticed the difference. Maybe he was more like Angel than she’d realized.  
  
There wasn’t any point in trying to anticipate what he wanted to say. She’d just roll with what came tonight, the way she always did when it came to her personal life. It’s not like she had any control over other people’s feelings. She could only try to be in control of her own. With a sigh, she gathered up the remains of her cup and headed back to the office.  
  
Fortunately, her classes kept her mind occupied all through the afternoon. Her little guys in the middle school class were always so squirrelly and distracted that it took all her concentration to keep them on task. Kick, punch, sweep. Jump, backward roll, block. The intermediate bladed weapons class was even more demanding, though it was sort of gratifying to get them all oohing and aahing when she ran through the demo at the beginning of class. Her advanced class was working on group tactical maneuvers, and she was pleased at their ingenuity, at least on paper. When they did a run-through in the training room, it sort of fell apart due to Ashley’s temporal/spatial confusion. The poor kid had some kind of mental block.  
  
“Okay, you’re standing in the middle of the face of a big clock. You’re facing the twelve, right?”  
  
Ashley just shook her head. Buffy suspected the digital age was to blame.  
  
“I can help her with it,” Pilar said. Both Ashley and Buffy gave her grateful looks.  
  
“All right, that’s it for today. There’s no patrol tonight, so make sure you’re all caught up with homework.” After a chorus of groans, Buffy was free for the night.  
  
She stopped by the House of Nanking for takeout. It was full dark by the time she got out of there. She didn’t know how far Spike would have to come, though given his confrontational relationship with sunlight she was pretty sure that he would be waiting for her. She hurried up the hill, but slowed to a casual stride once she turned onto her block. Since she was looking, she saw him the moment he detached himself from the shadows and sauntered over to meet her at the front steps.  
  
“Evenin’.”  
  
“Hey.” She started up the stairs. “I got Chinese.” She handed him the bag while she dug her key out of her satchel.  
  
“Smells heavenly.”  
  
“That’s probably the Five-Spice Heavenly Delight.” She pushed the door open and held it for him. “Do you need an invite?”  
  
“Not for the building, no.” He stepped into the foyer and waited while she got her mail.  
  
“Seems like a design flaw to me. I mean, if a vamp can get in and ambush you in the laundry room, that’s a lame kind of protection.”  
  
“Think the magic pre-dates laundry rooms, Slayer. Nowadays, the bleach odor will do the work of keeping monsters out of your fine washables.” He grinned a grin that made Buffy feel self-conscious. All this smelling talk was so Spike, but she didn’t know how to answer him. She was out of practice.  
  
“Um. I’m up on the third floor. No elevator, but that’s not a problem, is it?”  
  
His expression said _you’re ridiculous_ , but his mouth said, “Lead the way.”  
  
Buffy headed up the stairs with as much dignity as she could muster. It was tricky when she was convinced that he was watching her butt the whole three flights up.  
  
She unlocked the door and ushered him in.  
  
“Please come in, Spike.”  
  
“Kind of you, pet.” He looked around. She didn’t feel too nervous about her place, at least. It was a cozy mid-level bachelorette pad. She had a few knickknacks from her brief travels on display and lots of photos on the walls, mostly of her friends and of Dawn, all taken in the last few years. The furniture was serviceable if a little plain Jane. She moved the magazines to a basket by the door and arranged the take out cartons on the coffee table.  
  
“Is it okay if we just eat here? There’s a table in the kitchen, but this is nicer, if you don’t mind sitting on the floor.”  
  
He seemed to be trying not to laugh at her, though it might be her imagination.  
  
“I’m sure we’ll manage.”  
  
“Oh! I forgot!” She hurried into the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “What kind of blood do you want? I’ve got pig, cow, and lamb.”  
  
“You got me blood?” asked Spike from right behind her. If she turned around, they’d be toe to toe. She refrained.  
  
“Well, yeah. You’re here for dinner, aren’t you?” she shot over her shoulder.  
  
He smiled and shook his head in wonder.  
  
“’Spose I am. Cow’ll do me fine.”  
  
She pointed at the cupboard before diving into the fridge.  
  
“Make yourself useful and get some plates out, please” she said primly. “Chopsticks are in the bag, but if you’d feel more comfortable with a fork, they’re in that drawer over there.” She waved vaguely in the direction of the drawer with one hand, moving things around in the fridge with the other. She gathered up the carton of blood and grabbed a couple of beers while she was at it.  
  
“Tsing Tao?” she asked, holding the bottles aloft.  
  
He nodded absently, absorbed with his assigned domestic task. Buffy got his mug of blood ready for the microwave. She popped the tops off the beer bottles and followed him back into the living room, handing him a beer once he had his hands free.  
  
“Cheers,” he said, clinking his bottle to hers.  
  
They each took a swig, making direct eye contact for perhaps the first time that night.  
  
Buffy decided to quit acting like she was on the defensive. She was the Slayer! It was her apartment! If they were going to talk, there were a few things _she’d_ like to talk about.  
  
“Thanks for coming,” she said. “You were right. I do have a lot of questions.”  
  
That was better. Take charge, Buffy.  
  
Just as he opened his mouth to reply, the microwave dinged. She sighed, put down her beer and went to fetch his blood.  
  
He was seated on the floor by the coffee table, digging through the take out bag when she got back. She put the mug on a coaster in front of him just as he triumphantly drew out a packet of chili oil. He poured it into the blood and stirred it with a chopstick.  
  
“Really?” she said, sitting across from him.  
  
“You know I like things spicy,” he said, taking a sip and smacking his lips with satisfaction. “Ta, love.”  
  
Buffy rolled her eyes and scooped some chow fun onto her plate.  
  
“You know what I like? I like to know what’s going on.”  
  
“Have at, then. That’s what I’m here for,” he said, loading up his plate.  
  
“Well, what’s the deal with Dru’s shiny new soul? Where did it come from? Is it going to stick?”  
  
“Ah, just the easy questions, I see. How much time do you have, Slayer?”  
  
“I’ve got all night.” He arched his eyebrow. Maybe that hadn’t come out right. Too bad. He could take everything as a double entendre if he wanted — she didn’t have to rise to the bait. When she just looked at him, he sighed.  
  
“Wasn’t a curse, exactly. Some chaos mage came along with a plan to discombobulate the Slayers by playing a shell game with them. Vampires.” He held one hand out, palm facing up. “Souls.” He held up his other palm in front of him. “Button, button, who’s got the button?” Spike made a series of complicated motions in the air with his hands. “Picked the wrong vampires to play with, though. Didn’t get the results he wanted. Not hardly.”  
  
He searched through the cartons, clearly seeking a distraction from his thoughts. She felt more questions bubbling up, and tried to pick the most important one.  
  
“So, it’s not going away if she’s, um, happy?”  
  
He paused, a potsticker held by his chopsticks in mid-air. “Dru might be closer to happy now than she’s been her whole unlife. Soul’s not going anywhere. I made damn sure of that.” He popped the potsticker into his mouth and bit down with finality.  
  
Buffy wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or not. She didn’t really want to know the details of how he’d ensured the stability of the soul or just how happy Dru was these days. It would be so much simpler if the problem of Dru could be reduced to dust. But even she had to admit that Dru on the wagon was better than the drinking-freely version. If a vampire was off the sauce and wanted to help, Buffy’s historical approach was to let them. This instance rankled more than ever before, though.  
  
“I guess I’ll take your word for it. So, how come she’s all with the sense-having now?”  
  
“What, did you think getting a soul would send her off her trolley? Doesn’t work that way for everybody. Angelus kept it together, useless as he was. Now that Dru can see the point of things she’s not nearly as confused. Was just me that lost the plot, Slayer.”  
  
“You did okay,” she murmured.  
  
“I was a mess. A pathetic tosser.”  
  
“You knew enough to come to me for help.”  
  
“Should never have darkened your door in that state. Was just too far gone to know how to do anything else.”  
  
“I guess you figured out some alternatives, after Sunnydale.”  
  
He blinked at her.  
  
“I mean, you know, you were able to work with another team, and, and to make your own way. Without me. Which you should totally be free to do. It’s just… I thought we were friends or, or colleagues, at least. But you never even let me know you were alive!”  
  
Buffy clamped her mouth shut, but the words had already escaped. She’d wanted so much to play this cool. To not let him know how hurt she was. To let him live his unlife however he chose, without implying he owed her anything.  
  
Spike nodded slowly, and seemed about to reply. Buffy cut him off.  
  
“Never mind, Spike. You don’t have to explain anything to me. You’re more than entitled to do what you want. I’m just glad I have a chance to tell you how happy I am that you’re not dust. Okay?”  
  
He sighed.  
  
“No, pet, you’re right. You deserved to know…I should have…” He struggled to find the words, but finally shrugged. “I don’t know why, Buffy. Told myself all kinds of drivel about how you’d be better off, happier, without me to mess up your life. Convinced myself I’d just be more of a burden than a help to you. Wasn’t fair to you.”  
  
“Stupid vampires with souls,” she muttered. “How come they always come to the conclusion that the best thing for me is to stay away?”  
  
He considered this.  
  
“Dunno. It made perfect sense when I had a soul. Now it’s gone, does seem a bit silly, leaving you to fight on your own. Big Slayer like you can make up her own mind, right?”  
  
She stared. Had she heard right?  
  
“You lost your soul?”  
  
He stared right back. “Well, yeah. Thought you knew. Dru’s got it now.”  
  
“Drusilla has your soul.”  
  
He started to look annoyed. “As I said.”  
  
She was feeling the beginning stir of panic in her chest. “Can you get it back?”  
  
“Are you barking?”  
  
“Did you just call me a bitch?”  
  
“No! Just wouldn’t think the Slayer would want a soulless Dru running unfettered.”  
  
“If ‘fettered’ means ‘staked’, then no, the Slayer wouldn’t want her un-whatever-it-is.”  
  
He took a breath. “Look,” he said in a reasonable tone. “It’s simple. Dru needs a soul to keep her from her old, bad ways. I’ve learned to be a bit more flexible. She needs it more than I do. If she didn’t have it, you’d have to kill her.”  
  
“Yeah, and don’t think I wouldn’t enjoy it, buster.”  
  
He surged to his feet. “You really are a bitch, Summers. Normally, that doesn’t bother me. But why would you want to kill Dru, when she’s trying to help you? My lack of a soul must be interfering with my understanding here,” he added, sarcastically.  
  
Buffy leapt to her feet as well. “She’s Drusilla, that’s why! I don’t trust her. She killed Kendra. A Slayer! Under my watch!”  
  
Spike seemed to relax as the sense of this argument sunk in.  
  
“I’ve killed Slayers too, Buffy. But I’ve changed. And Drusilla has, too. If you can’t trust her, can you at least trust me?”  
  
Could she? She’d invited him in. That was possibly a mistake, but even knowing he was soulless and chipless, he still just felt like _Spike_. She decided to put aside the trust question for later and tried another tack.  
  
“She hurt you. How can you be okay with this?” grumbled Buffy.  
  
“Ah, pet. I’m a forgiving sort when it comes to the women I’ve loved. Much as I carry on, I’d still rather they walked the earth.”  
  
“You offered to kill her for me once.”  
  
“I did. I’d do it again if I had to, to keep you safe. You’ve got to know that, Slayer.” Buffy shook her head. “It’s just…if there’s a way, such a simple way, to not have to end her, I have to try.”  
  
He started to pace. Her living rom was so small that he soon abandoned the attempt.  
  
“I know you’ve had to kill the one you love. Bloody hell, you died rather than let Dawn be killed.”  
  
He turned to look at her, and there was that look — the one filled with adoration. She never thought she’d see it again.  
  
“You’re amazing,” he said. He dropped his head. “Guess I’m just not as strong as you.”  
  
She wanted to tell him that he was equally amazing. She wanted to touch his arm and offer comfort. It wasn’t her place, though. She tried to convey her feelings in her words and her gentle tone.  
  
“Spike, I get it. I do.” She took a deep breath. “Nobody wants to kill their lover. I don’t blame you.”  
  
“My love… What are you talking about?”  
  
“I’m just saying that I understand…”  
  
“Drusilla is _not_ my lover,” he interrupted. “Haven’t been between her thighs since before I ever clapped eyes on you.”  
  
Buffy scoffed. “Yeah, right. Three whole days.”  
  
“No,” he said, slowly and clearly. “Not since the first time. Back in Sunnydale, behind the Bronze.”  
  
This was news to Buffy.  
  
“But, you didn’t love me then. You just wanted to fight me.”  
  
“’Course I didn’t love you. Had nothing to do with you, not at first. But Dru was ill back then. When she got better, dear old Angelus came to stay, and he saw to her.” He clenched his jaw with the memory. Buffy wasn’t too thrilled either.  
  
“Now, she’s like a child, more than ever. Wouldn’t mistreat her that way. What kind of a monster do you think I am?”  
  
Buffy felt her head swimming as she listened to these revelations. He stared intently into her eyes, daring her to accuse him of telling anything but the naked truth.  
  
All at once, she saw him crumble. It was as if she could see the images playing through his head: a stark white bathroom, a crying girl on the floor.  
  
She certainly hadn’t been thinking of that, not at all. Not in years. He jerked back from her, eyes wide, just like that night.  
  
“Right. Forgot. You know exactly what kind of monster I am. I’ll just see myself out.”  
  
“Spike! No—“  
  
But he was already gone.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Cupid's Span" by Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen, 2003. Photo copyright ryelk 2010.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Spike and Buffy lick their respective wounds after a communication breakdown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the quickie betas by Shapinglight and MiAmor.

Spike watched the plastic bottles from the overturned recycling bin bounce anemically down the street. No satisfying clatter and crash in this modern world. Why had he expected any relief from kicking over rubbish bins, anyway? Stupid git.

He stalked off without any destination in mind. He had no particular place to be, besides away from the scene of his latest humiliation. If he’d allowed himself to think it, he’d expected to be tucked into the Slayer’s cozy apartment all evening, baring his heart and begging her forgiveness. In his closely guarded imaginings, she’d sweetly granted him that and more. Instead, he was out on the street, the same deluded sentimental fool he ever was.

Buffy’d take his help, but she would never accept him as a man without the soul. She knew the demon too well. He wished he could say the same. Wished he could see the line between man and beast so that he could choose to be one or the other. As it was, he fooled himself into thinking he had control over the monster, only to be reminded that he never would. Yet the old freedom was gone. He would never be free-range evil again. Neither Buffy nor Dru would like it, and his gut told him he wouldn’t either.

On Kearny Street between North Beach and Chinatown he stopped to light a cigarette. Across the road was the Purple Onion, not a patch on its old glory days, like so much of the neighborhood. He remembered haunting it with Dru back when it was swarming with young artists, all filled with anger at a fat, self-satisfied, hypocritical post-war society. Hoping for a beautiful new world. Had they won? In some ways, yes. The blinders were off — cynicism was rampant. Hope? Harder to say.

Above him, the marquee for The Lusty Lady peep show read “KEISTER BUNNIES”. It took Spike a moment to crack the code, until he remembered that Easter was nigh. Still a crap pun. Surrounding himself for an hour in the bosom of comforting, willing women was tempting, though. Ha. There was a pun. He hesitated on the threshold. Was ogling naked women an evil, soulless activity? Was NOT ogling them yet another sign that he’d been unmanned? Would it soothe his heart or mind? Did he care, or more precisely, have anything better to do?

Shrugging, he ducked inside. Noting the “Couples Welcome!” signs, he made his way to an unoccupied booth and stuck a twenty in the slot. The window rose and a stage dotted with gyrating lovelies came into view. To Spike’s discerning eye they could all use a good feed, not that he was complaining. A fellow liked a bit of jiggle with the wiggle, but at this point all he was searching for was a sweet smile.

Or perhaps he was fooling himself. In some ways, this time with Dru was just what he’d been telling himself he wanted. She loved him with openness and lack of guile. She no longer tried to corrupt or mold him. She seemed to accept him and see in him a partner, someone who could be depended on and consulted. Her smile was offered unstintingly, her presence and kindness consoled him when he was feeling the strain.

And yet. Dru’s love for him now was true, but…familial. Not a passionate, romantic love. He still craved love, respect, intimacy, and fantastic shagging with one woman. His impossible dream.

Meanwhile, a possible dream was shimmying right in front of him. A tall redhead with a glint in her eye and a smile on her face was performing a series of low, twisting bends on stage. She turned and looked at him from over her shoulder. Swaying in time with the music, she slowly slid her hands from her shoulders, down her sides, over her hips, and down her thighs. His head tilted along with her body as she bent at the waist, her charming arse twitching on the other side of the glass. Just as she was about to reveal a few delectable secrets, his window slid shut.

“Buggering hell,” he muttered, fishing out another bill and inserting it into the slot. The window rose again, but the redhead had moved on. Story of his life, really.

He perused the other dancers. An athletic little spitfire sporting a tiny flame tattoo on her hip prowled toward his window. She gave him a sultry shoulder roll and he showed her a bit of tongue. Nearly got a grin, too. She was too professional to laugh outright, but he reckoned she appreciated the nod from someone who knew the score. One teasing seducer to another, and all that. She looked about ready to launch into something special when her attention was drawn to the other side of the stage.

Then Spike heard it — a flat pounding sound that didn’t line up with the dancers’ thumping soundtrack. He looked through the various limbs to see a fist beating against a window across the way, but he couldn’t make out more than that. The performers attempted, with varying degrees of success, to continue their exertions while the pounding got more frantic. With a splintering crash, a hand broke through the glass. Blood droplets and glass shards fell across the stage. The dancers fell back and finally stilled. Spike got a glimpse of a man’s face through the jagged opening, twisted with pain and revulsion.

Spike stood and did a quick calculation, flinging the door to his booth open. The floor of the hallway was bathed in mist up to his calves, which he didn’t remember being there when he came in. He pounded down the hall to the booth he figured held the man, mist swirling like grasping fingers behind him. The scent of blood overpowered even the disinfectant smell of the place. The door was locked, of course. He kicked it in. The bloke was trying to crawl out the broken window, causing himself further injury and terrifying the ladies on stage.

Spike hauled the tosser out of the mess, trying not to exacerbate the damage to his hide. He dragged him into the hallway and pressed him roughly up against the wall. The man’s eyes were rolling and he was panting wildly. Spike wondered if banging his head against the wall might not make one of them feel better.

“Drop ’im,” came the order from behind him. It rang like a bell through Spike. He could hear it even over the techno beat.

He turned his head to see a young woman with close-cropped hair, fists firmly planted on her hips, giving him a familiar level gaze. She was wearing glittery shorts, a halter top, with ankle boots on her feet. The glitzy get up didn’t do much to camouflage her true nature.

“What have we here? Scene kid slayer? Adorable,” he purred. “Let’s hear the magic word, then”

Her eyes widened. Surprise warred with annoyance. She suddenly held a stake in her fist. Spike marveled yet again at the ease with which these bints concealed their weapons. He whirled and held the bleeding man to his chest. That his head was lolling to the side with his neck stretched out below Spike’s mouth simply made the tableau more convincing. Classic even.

“What’s your name, precious?” he asked. Her chin jutted out in defiance. So cute. “Mine’s Spike.”

She blinked. Recognition dawned. She took a more solid grip on her stake. Gratifying to know that he still made the lesson books.

“Heard of me, have you?”

She narrowed her gaze, but seemed be taking stock of the situation more carefully. She glanced into the booth and must’ve seen the broken window. Her eyes were back on him in a flash.

“A bulletin went out about you yesterday. Pretty unusual. ‘Don’t stake except to protect or defend’ it said. So which is it here?”

He sighed. “Neither, pet. Just trying to do a good deed. This wanker broke through the glass to get at the girls. Thought I’d step in. You’re welcome, and all.”

She really looked annoyed now.

“You know this is a union shop, right? We don’t need scabs coming in to help with security.”

He laughed. “Union strippers, sweetling? Pull the other one.”

Her expression didn’t change a jot. “Look, vampire. Maybe you’re new in town or something, but we’ve got our own way of doing things, and right now that way is for you to put Carl down. Gently.”

“Carl?” asked Spike.

She shrugged. “He’s a regular.”

The man he held started coughing, as if on cue.

“Carl? You okay there?” she asked.

“Honey?” wheezed the man. “Oh, ow. I don’t feel so good.”

“Where d’you want him?” Spike asked the slayer. She looked uncertain. She probably wanted to argue about jurisdiction or what all. He had possession, though. Finally she pointed further down the hallway. Spike lifted Carl and — keeping an eye on the slayer who kept an equally close eye on him — carried him to an alcove that held a bench.

“Here okay?” he asked. She nodded. He put Carl down without an excess of tenderness and stepped away. He’d managed to get smeared with blood at some point, and began to suck it off his fingers with relish. Mostly to brass off slayer-girl, but also because it was a sin to waste food. He didn’t often get even a taste of human this fresh.

She gave him a dirty look. Spike approved of this one. She kept her stake at the ready, even when she crouched down beside Carl to take stock of his condition.

Spike could see and smell lots of cuts and gouges, but the guy had miraculously not nicked anything vital, far as he could tell. He seemed to be regaining a measure of alertness, focusing on the girl in front of him.

“Hey, Car. You’re pretty banged up. I’m thinking you should probably see a doctor.”

“Aw, c’mon, Honey,” he whined. “Can’t you just pour me inna cab like always?”

“Sorry. You’re bleeding all over the place. No cabbie is gonna take you like that.”

Carl looked down and seemed to notice the cuts criss-crossing his hands and arms for the first time.

“What the hell?”

“That’s what I was hoping you could tell me, Car.”

He furrowed his brow, attempting to recall. “I was in my booth and it got real cold. I couldn’t get the door open and I felt like I was, I dunno… drowning? Jeez. What the fuck is going on around here?”

The slayer gave Spike a suspicious look. He shrugged.

“Gripping as this is, I think I’ll skip the pointless questioning of the canapés. Good luck with all that.” He stalked away in a swirl of leather, but stopped before he was out of sight. “Genuine pleasure to make your acquaintance, Slayer.” He blew her a kiss and melted away.

The EMTs arrived within minutes and took charge of Carl. Honey met the cops soon after. The damage was contained and the injuries seemed to be of the self-inflicted variety, so they wrote up enough of a report to satisfy the insurance company. When they were gone the janitors set to work, hanging an OUT OF ORDER sign on a chain across the broken doorway and getting out the mops, heavy duty gloves, and bleach. Honey climbed the stairs to the office. She pulled the bulletin off the board and called the number listed at the bottom. She’d never had to call in an after hours update before.

“Hey, Buffy? It’s Honey at The Lusty Lady. One of your vamps was in here tonight. Yeah, the male. Uh huh. Course I didn’t stake him! He was, I dunno, helpful? And disturbing. Oh. Well, we had a bit of an incident. Patron managed to get shredded, though it doesn’t look like the vampire was involved. Nah, he’ll be all right. Your vamp seemed to think he was an appetizer, though. No, no fangs…just lots of tongue. Hey, you okay?”

+++

_Wednesday morning at the SlayerSF offices_

Buffy wasn’t in the mood. She hadn’t been able to sleep last night. Coffee was her friend, but it couldn’t do all the work. She looked over the reports littering the conference table and sighed.

Sylvia took pity on her. “It looks more complicated than it is. We had an uptick in after-hours reports, but nothing requiring reinforcements. Our source at SF General Hospital says psychiatric emergency intakes spiked significantly last night. Unofficially, most of those patients were fine within a few hours.”

“Okay. Weirdness on the rise.” Buffy tried very hard not to think too much about anything “spiking”. That way lay badness.

“Looks like it,” agreed Angela. “The good news is that fatalities citywide are still running at normal rates.”

“I guess we’re not at DEFCON 2 yet. Whatever that means,” said Buffy.

The other two slayers looked confused, but shrugged it off. They were wonderful, dedicated teammates, but they didn’t speak Sunnydale-ese. On a day like today, Buffy could use a little understanding. Xander would have got it. Heck, he probably would have said it. Sylvia dug through her notes, pulling a pink phone message from a file.

“The witches and seers are starting to pick up portents, no surprise. The witches want to set up a summit with some of the friendly demons, to pool information. They’d like to have a slayer representative there.”

“I’ve got patrol tonight,” said Buffy.

She wasn’t a diplomat, to say the least, but she was still the Slayer their demon allies wanted to deal with. She wasn’t sure if it was a cultural thing and they wanted the Head of the Slayer line, or if — as she suspected but had never confirmed — they wanted the Slayer who had shown a willingness to _fully_ collaborate with demonkind in the good fight. If it was the second, they were mistaken if they thought she was likely to be more sympathetic. The new slayers were probably more open-minded than Buffy, even with all her “experience”. She couldn’t blame the demons for wanting a known quantity, though. She often felt the same way.

There it was again, the thought pushing its way into her consciousness: Spike. Spike was back, and she didn’t know what that meant. She didn’t know if she still knew him, if he was the man she’d loved, the demon who’d fought alongside her, or someone new. Someone who frequented strip clubs, she thought bitterly.

She pushed the distracting thoughts aside. There was work to do.

“Can you ask them to set it up for tomorrow afternoon? I can let the girls know that classes will be cancelled. They’ll be thrilled.”

Sylvia made a note and that wrapped up the meeting. One item checked off Buffy’s lengthy to-do list. She ducked into her office, shut the door and collapsed into her office chair. Thick fog obscured the view out her window. The foghorn guarding the Golden Gate sounded its mournful bellow, the perfect counterpoint to her frame of mind.

The day stretched before her: conference call, classes, and patrol. With luck, she wouldn’t have time to worry about her own personal vampire problem. She could think about it after the apocalypse, right? That approach felt right. Familiar. With a jolt, she realized that it was familiar because it was what she’d done in the last days of Sunnydale.

She’d been so full of feelings, feelings much less confused than the ones she was having now, and frightening in their intensity. She’d kept them on lock down, separate from everything else. She’d known she had something precious — too precious to leave out in the open, too brilliant to examine directly. She’d tucked that cherished treasure away, and only opened it for a moment or two at a time, keeping in reserve for _later_.

She’d poured all her focus into the fight and she’d won. They’d won. But she’d lost _him_. Later never came.

Until now. Now she had a chance to reconnect with him, if she wanted. Did she? This Spike was strange, if completely recognizable. He walked like Spike and he talked like Spike, but the jury was out whether he was her Spike.

The big question mark was the missing soul. What did it mean that he no longer had possession? He’d been happy enough with the blood she’d provided last night, but she hadn’t thought to ask if he was back on a human Happy Meal diet. Was he killing? She didn’t think so. He didn’t seem to have that predatory air, but she’d seen him doing his menacing act with that little girl. How much of an act was it?

And what about Dru? She had Spike’s soul. What did that even mean? Was Dru his moral true north now? _That_ was a terrifying thought. She seemed to get an awful lot of his attention for a not-lover. Not that Buffy missed being the center of his intense focus. Wanting that again would be wrong. It was just sorta strange to be around him and not feel his…yearning. Yes, that was it. It was strange.

And what the hell did it mean that he was hanging out in strip bars? Was that part of the no-soul package? It didn’t seem very Spike-like — the original Mr. Love’s Bitch. But he wasn’t in love, was he? He’d said he had a soft spot for the women he’d loved, and she got that. But he only talked about love in the “used-to” sense. He hadn’t said anything about love in the present. It used to be so easy for him, before the soul, to talk of love. Love, love, love, all the freaking time. Now he talked about “helping” but he was spending his time at girly shows.

It didn’t make any sense that something so stupid would get to her like this. It wasn’t like he was her boyfriend. According to him, he wasn’t Dru’s either. Buffy guessed that maybe he wasn’t anybody’s at the moment. It gave her a pang, to think of all that untapped devotion, going to waste. No wonder he was hanging out with strippers.

Argh! So many questions, none of which she could possibly answer now. She’d think about all this later. Avoido Buffy was still in the driver’s seat. It had to be that way.

+++

That night Buffy took her squad to the Castro, feeling that all of them, including herself, needed a cream puff assignment. The International Film Festival was in full swing at the theatre, so there was even more foot traffic than usual. Yeji, Celeste, Pilar, and Ashley monitored the long lines wrapping around the block, just in case something tried to pick off stragglers. The ID checkers at the gay bars were too savvy about keeping underage boys out to let a few underage girls slip through, so hitting the bars was up to Buffy. The neighborhood bouncers knew her and they were thrilled to let her do a quick vamp-check without paying the cover charge. They were awfully sweet, and always made sure to tell her how _gorgeous_ and _darling_ she was. It was fun, getting all that positive feedback from men without an agenda. Just what she needed today.

When she got back to the theatre to check in with the girls, the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence were working the ticket holders’ line. They were glittering in their colorful habits, bejeweled and bespangled, passing out fliers for their Charity Easter Sunday Egg Hunt and Hunky Jesus Contest, entertaining the crowd. Buffy tried to remember if she was on the security detail for this year’s event.

They always seemed so joyful. A Sister had told her once that he’d lost so much that it would be a sin NOT to make the most of every day. It was still hard for her to grasp the scourge that AIDS, fear, and hatred had been for this community, but it put her own problems and losses into perspective. She felt a kinship with those that had been through the wars and come out the other side. They were survivors, too. She just hoped she could one day get to the place of peace the Sisters seemed to have achieved.

Buffy caught Sister Mary Mae Hymn’s eye and motioned him over to the curb.

“What can I do for you, child?” he asked, eyes dancing.

“Hey, I was just wondering if you’ve noticed anything unusual the last few days. You know, my kind of thing?”

His expression sobered. “It doesn’t take an adept to notice there’s something strange going on. Sister Pat dei Bunny and Sister Shirley Good Nessan Mercy fell into spiritual ecstasy last night, and I don’t think it was the holy spirit at work, if you get me.”

“Are they okay?”

“It passed. I get the feeling that it’s just the beginning, though. Call it a Sister’s intuition.”

“You might be right. Hey, do me a favor and call in anything of the weird, alright?” She handed him a business card. He studied it for a moment before tucking it away somewhere inside his habit.

“Blessings be upon you for asking me that with a straight face, child.” He smiled beatifically and looked around at his flock.

In the corner of her eye, Buffy thought she caught a glimpse of black leather disappearing into a cab, but before the thought even registered, she was distracted by an enormous, echoing boom and the screech of tortured metal upon metal. She took off at a run in the direction from which the sound had come, catching up with the other girls within a block.

At the foot of Dolores Park, a Muni train lay on its side in a pile of overturned automobiles. Buffy called out orders to the squad to check the cars for injured people and ran to where the driver’s seat of the train would be. The inside of the compartment was filled with fog, though the street directly around it was clear. Buffy punched out the window and the fog poured out onto the ground, flowing up the hill to a fog bank that hovered, held in place by invisible air currents. The driver was wreathed in snakelike mist, pouring from her mouth and ears. She was dead.

+++

Dru looked across the back seat of the cab at him.

“You must guard your heart.”

“Doing my best.” Spike’s hollow chuckle let her know how little success he was having with that.

He’d gone down to the Castro with a view to not much. Dru wanted to go, and he went where she bid. Her fascination with the nuns in drag seemed to be the point of the outing, until he spotted one of them talking to Buffy.

It was too soon after the disaster of yesterday to face her again, although he suspected there wasn’t much time left to forge an alliance for the looming trouble.

It’d be all right. She’d do the right thing, like always. They’d just have to give her a little time to get used to the idea of help from an unexpected, and probably unwanted, source. It’s not like she hadn’t forged strange alliances in the past. It was practically her trademark.

He might be kidding himself, but he thought he still knew what made her tick, all these years later. She was still in the thick of the good fight, as he’d known she would be. Still doing her duty as den mother to a new batch of slayers. Maybe she didn’t have the joy in it she’d once had, but not the despair either.

He wondered why he hadn’t seen any of her mates from Sunnydale yet, making themselves indispensable. They’d always been good at keeping her aware of what she kept fighting for, night after night. Even if she wasn’t interested in being friends with him anymore, he didn’t like to think of her all on her lonesome.

Drusilla stopped his train of thought with a hand to his cheek. She looked at him seriously.

“You’re stronger in goodness than you know. Don’t despair. I see such a glorious light in you. Here.” She tapped his temple. “And here.” She touched his chest. He wondered that such familiar gestures could feel so different. She pulled his face down until his forehead rested against hers. He closed his eyes and felt a sort of peace flow into him. If this was thrall, the soul had transformed it into something a pole apart from what it had been.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’d talk to the Slayer and together they’d make this looming nasty wish it had stayed in its slime pit until the end of time.

_TBC_


End file.
